Page 43 of Sure as Shooting

Chapter Seventeen

When he saw the body of Tenaya’s son lying within pistol range of the oak tree where he’d been tied, shot in the back, Huntley carried on like all possessed.

The fellow had mysteriously gotten loose during the watch of Thaddeus Martin, a crony of Bud Pennington’s, a former ranger from Texas who had often opined that killing Indians or Spaniards, it didn’t matter which, was a duty. Huntley discovered Tad leaning casually against the very oak he had been guarding, a satisfied grin on his out-and-out dough-headed face. He seemed to be expecting praise, for when Huntley started for him puffed up with rage, the smug face vanished, to be replaced with one of abject horror.

Huntley bellowed at Phil Din, “One got away—give chase!” In three enormous strides Huntley had his hand around Tad’s throat, lifting the man who was almost as tall as himself and dragging him up the bark of the oak.

“You have committed murder.” Huntley growled.

Tad scrabbled at the front of Huntley’s greatcoat, his boots running in place in the air. “I–I—Bud Pennington told—”

Huntley didn’t wait to hear the story. He punched the dolt two, three, four times in the face, the bones resounding with a satisfying crunch. Boys came running over, but no one tried to tear Huntley off the miscreant. Huntley only stopped punching him because he didn’t want blood splattered on his shirt, which was already filthy enough.

Tossing the sucker to the snow, Huntley pivoted about looking for Bud. Sure enough, the puffed-up louse came swaggering up, also grinning with the expectation he would receive praise. Bud even saluted. Huntley refrained from thrashing him because he was Belle’s brother, but he stood so close to Bud his rage melted the icicles from Bud’s idiotic beaver cap.

“Private!” he roared. “By Saint Michael, what has happened here? Who was the one to commit this bald murder?”

Bud stood straight. “It was I, Major! He was attempting to escape, so I shot him dead! That imp of Satan shall harass us no longer.”

“You hell-fired blockhead! Are your brains in your balls? Terrell! Put this man in bracelets.”

Of course they had no real bracelets, so Terrell set to tying Bud’s wrists at the small of his back with a length of reata. Bud instantly erupted in a lather, every sinew in his neck standing out in sharp relief. “What in Sam Hill are you doing, Major?”

“Arresting you for murder.”

“Murder? That nefarious son of a bitch was trying to escape, Major! I did everyone a giant favor by polishing off that bugger!”

“You also just led to the ruination of our campaign. What incentive will Tenaya have to come in now, if his son is dead, another one running back to him at this very moment?”

It was clear the mood of the crowd was with Huntley from the way they kept encouraging Huntley to throw Bud a necktie party, by the authority of Judge Lynch.

To change the subject, Bud howled, “You damned lady-killer! Does everyone know what a masher you are? Yeah, that’s right, boys! I have nailed this bastard red-handed mashing his filthy paws all over my dear sainted sister, and more than that, I’ve seen him consorting in an inverted, sodomite manner with that surgeon who—”

“Enough, Bud.”

Suddenly Whit was next to Huntley, having pushed his way through the knot of men. Apparently Whit had no such compunctions about Bud being Belle’s brother, for he grabbed the shrimp by the lapel of his navy peacoat and rattled him about mercilessly. “You have the grit to accuse your superior officer of deviant unnatural doings when it is I, the Indian surgeon, who has been mashing your sister!”

Huntley shook Whit by the shoulder. “It’s all right, Whit, you don’t need to—”

But Whit continued to bellow, “It is I, a detestable mulatto, who found the nerve to ask your sister to marry me! I’m proud to admit I’m part red man! Can you say the same about the crime you just committed, you low-down cur from the bottomless pit?”

Huntley fell back weakly into the chests of some boys who backed him up. Whit? Asked Belle to marry him? He would not be mentioning it right now in front of the entire battalion if Belle had not said yes!

Belle had succeeded in worming her way through the throng, and she, too, grabbed the lapel of Bud’s coat. “Bud! What have you done?”

“Is that true, Bellissima?” Bud was so enraged his words spewed spittle in Belle’s face. “You’re to marry this imp of Satan? Have a bevy of little red men scurrying about? Is that the shame you want to bring on our good family name?”

Huntley instructed, “Haul him away, Terrell. Gag him, too.” He interrupted Bud, perhaps because he didn’t want to hear Belle’s response, but she responded anyway.

“That’s correct, Bud. I’m to marry Dr. Whitney!”

Sick to his stomach, Huntley physically busted in between Belle and her bloviating sibling. “You’re going to Coventry, Pennington. Maybe a few weeks doing pack train duty will prevent you from doing anything like this ever again.”

As Terrell and a few others hauled the thrashing shrimp away, Bud still wailed. “I’ll get you, Whitney! I’ll be hiding, waiting with a necktie party for you when you least suspect it. I’m not going down easily! I’ll kill every last Indian even if the woods are full of them. I didn’t make it to the middle of the High Sierras all the way from Pike County only to wind up kowtowing to a pack of—”

Thump. It was Vowchester, the Indian guide, who whacked Bud on the head with the handle of his bowie knife. Many men laughed and congratulated Vowchester as Bud drooped to the ground, his eyeballs rolling into his skull.

Huntley was gratified that Belle didn’t try to assist Bud, but he was sickened that she shrank back delicately into Whit’s powerful arms. Whit soothed her by stroking her hair as they both stared at Bud’s limp body being dragged across the snow.