''Bring Me His Ears'' by Clarence E. Mulford (howl and other poems TXT) 📕

Tom passed it around and it was duly admired. Then the guard was changed and Burch and Flint appeared.

"You fellers air stickin' purty clost ter us," observed Tom.

"But not as clost as th' greasers air," laughed Flint. "Danged if we kin ketch one o' 'em away from th' waggins."

"That's jest as well," replied Tom. "More'n half of 'em hate Armijo as much as we do. If ye pick 'em off careless yer bound ter make mistakes. Thar's one gang that's fer him strong, an' 'twon't be long before they split from th' others an' stand out so thar won't be no mistakin' 'em. They'll be trailin' me an' Hank in a bunch. We're aimin' ter slip away an' head fer Bent's some place between hyar an' the Upper Spring."

"Thought ye was goin' ter Santa Fe," said Burch in surprise. "If yer goin' ter Bent's ye should 'a' left th' train at th' Crossin'."

"I'm goin' ter Santa Fe," replied Tom, "but thar's some folks that air anxious ter see me. If they larn I'm thar I'll likely be stood ag'in a wall; an' Armijo'll add my ears ter his c'llection. We got ter throw 'em off our trail." He smiled grimly around the circle. "I don't want Salezar ter larn I'm in this part o' the country, fer I want ter git my paws on him."

At the mention of that name the eyes of the leader flamed with flickering fires and he leaned slightly forward, unable to conceal his eagerness. "Whar ye aimin' ter leave th' caravan, friend?" he asked.

"Don't know jest yet," answered Tom, "but I know th' way we'll head. Ye know whar th' waggin road crossed McNees Crick? Wall, plumb north o' that a crick empties inter th' Cimarron. Thar's a dry gully jines th' crick at its mouth, makin' a V. Th' gully war made by th' buffalers wearin' away th' top soil, which let the rains cut inter th' sand beneath an' wash it away. That buffaler trail is th' biggest ye ever saw, an' it's worn down so deep that every rain pours a stream along it. It's cut a gully back fer a hundred paces to whar th' buffaler wallers have turned a little pasture inter a swamp when it rains. Clost to its upper end is a hill, whar my partner built a cache about ten years back. He says th' pit could be easy seen when he war thar last."

"We're aimin' ter head fer Bent's as soon as th' caravan gits too fur along," said the leader, who not long since had returned from the lepers' hospital, used as a prison in his case, in Mexico City. His bitterness had seared him to the soul and Tom thought it strange that he so easily would forego the desire for revenge, the flames of which intermittently flickered in his eyes. "I've been wonderin' about th' best an' straightest way to Bent's, with water on it. Yer pardner says that's th' best trail?"

"Yes," replied Tom. "An' it's th' best fer us in another way. Thar's springs in th' river bed up thar an' fer near a mile th' river's allus wet. Ye see, we got ter throw th' greasers off our trail, which will be too danged plain, with two hosses an' eight mules. I'd swap th' eight mules fer two hosses, seein' as how we're fixed, but I dassn't make th' play, fer everybody in th' caravan would larn of it. Come ter think of it, thar'll be more hosses an' mules; couple o' friends air goin' with us. We change our packs tonight, buildin' 'em up with buffaler rugs we traded th' Comanches fer, in case we part with our goods an' leave th' caravan afterward. Th' two extra hosses would be enough ter carry our grub an' supplies, an' they'd let us make better time than th' mules would."

The Texans nodded and one of them glanced at his leader while he spoke to Tom. "Reckon if ye got them mules ter Bent's ye could sell 'em, or trade 'em fer a couple o' hosses?" He hesitated and then said: "We're runnin' powerful short o' powder an' lead."

"Th' caravan bein' so clost ter Santa Fe, it's got more o' both than it needs," replied Tom. "If we kin git ye some we'll leave it behind th' hill at that old cache o' Hanks. If ye go that way, look fer it." He grinned. "Hank an' me air aimin' ter carry some in one of th' buffaler rug packs. Thar's two fifty-pound pigs o' lead fastened to each o' th' cannon carriages, an' they won't have no use fer more than one ter each gun.

"Wish I war goin' with ye," growled the Texan leader, his eyes flaming again. "I'm hankerin' ter git Salezar's ears, fer I saw th' polecat c'llect Texan ears on th' road from San Miguel ter 'Paso, ter keep th' tally o' his prisoners straight. He strung 'em on a wire, d—n him!" His face became livid with passion, and murder raised its grisly visage in his eyes.

Tom paled. "Yes," he said. "He took th' ears o' a friend o' mine that war sick an' weak with hunger an' cold an' exhaustion, an' couldn't keep up. He had traded most o' his clothes fer short rides on th' mules o' th' guards. They killed him near Valencia, an' his ears war took ter account fer him."

"Valencia!" muttered the leader, pacing back and forth like a panther. "I remember him! Oh, Christ!" he cried, and then got hold of himself. "Boyd, I'd give everythin' I own ter git my han's on that Salezar; an' go ter hell with a smile on my face!" Then he stiffened and reached convulsively toward his holster, for the unmistakable twang of a bowstring sounded from the bushes above his head. The Texans leaped to their arms, but Tom stopped them with a cry.

"Wait, boys! That's Hank—my pardner!" He looked up toward the bushes. "Ye damned fool! Show yerself!"

"Didn't hardly know if 'twar safe," chuckled Hank, his head slowly arising above the tangle of leaves and vines, a dozen paces from the place where the bowstring had twanged.

"Whar's that huntin' party ye war nursin'?" quickly demanded Tom.

"Took 'em 'round on t'other side o' th' camp, ast 'em ter hold my hoss, an' left 'em thar," chuckled the plainsman, making his way down the hillside with caution and silence that had become habitual.

"Boys," said Tom, "hyar's a 'dopted son o' th' Piegan tribe o' th' Blackfeet, name o' Hank Marshall, an' he's more Injun than any brave in th' tribe. Anyhow, I'd ruther have a Injun on my trail than him. He's goin' with me ter Santa Fe; an' Salezar's shore goin' ter need all his friends!"

"Put her thar!" said the Texan leader. "If yer lookin' fer help I'll jine ye, cussed if I won't!"

"Don't want no help that's strange ter Taos an' Santer Fe," laughed Hank. "We got two Green River boys, an' don't need no more; don't hardly need them, but Zeb wants his ha'r, an' I wants his ears, ears bein' his pet joke." He looked at the leader. "You boys run inter some 'Rapahoes? Thar's nigh onter a dozen projectin' 'round these hills. Stumbled acrost thar camp a-ways back. If I'd had one o' them newfangled rifles ye got so many of, danged if I wouldn't 'a' trailed 'em." He grinned expansively. "They cleaned out a cache o' mine, three year back, up on Big Sandy Crick, an' I ain't paid 'em fer it yit."

"We shore do need powder an' lead," said the leader thoughtfully. He turned to one of his men. "Sam, reckon we kin part with pore Williams' rifle?"

"Seein' as we got three more extrys, reckon we kin," answered Sam. "It oughter be worth a keg o' powder an' a couple o' pigs o' lead." He walked over to where their supplies were piled and returned with a heavy Colt repeating rifle. "Hyar, Hank," he said, handing it to the hunter. "Be keerful ter keep th' powder from spillin' down 'round th' cap end; an' don't empty her too fast after th' first few shots. Hyar's th' mold, an' some caps. Git a Injun ter pay fer pore Williams. She's full loaded, so look out."

The rifle was sheathed in a saddle scabbard and Hank took it, looked from it to his own, weighing them both. "Heavy as all git out," he remarked. "Wall, 'twon't weigh nothin' when it's slung ter a saddle. Might be handy purty soon. Much obliged, friends. How we goin' ter git th' powder an' lead ter ye?"

"I've arranged fer that," said Tom, picking up his rifle. "Wall, good luck, boys. Remember us at Bent's if ye git thar."

"Reckon it's you boys that need th' good luck," grimly replied the leader. He watched the two visitors until they were lost to sight in the brush and then turned to his men, his eyes flaming again. "Break camp, boys; we're crossin' th' river close by, ter circle back ag'in farther up."

Tom and Hank, moving silently back toward the encampment, had covered about half of the distance when they heard a sudden burst of shots, yells, and the thunder of hoofs. Running up the side of a little hill they peered over the top and flung themselves down. Less than two hundred paces away a little party of tenderfeet, with Patience Cooper in the center, fought frightened horses as a band of nearly a dozen Indians came charging straight for them across the little clearing. As they looked one of the tenderfeet's horse went down, spilling its rider, and throwing the group into still greater confusion.

"'Rapahoes!" snorted Hank, and his rifle spoke. "One fer my cache!"

The double-barreled rifle of his companion roared twice and another warrior plunged from his horse, while the third fought madly to keep his seat, but his weakening grasp loosened and he rolled over and over across the grass. Tom dropped the empty rifle and started to rise, his hand leaping to the Colt revolver at his belt; but Hank, who had slipped the newly-acquired repeating rifle from its sheath, poked it into his friend's hand and fell to re-loading his Hawken. "She's yore gal. Give 'em hell!" he grunted.

The deadly and unexpected attack from the little hilltop created a diversion which for the moment turned the thoughts of the savages from the tenderfeet in the open, and the charging line split to pass the forlorn group and give its full attention to the real menace; but as it hesitated the heavy, regular crashes of the revolving rifle rolled from the hill, its lead always selecting the warrior nearest to the panic-stricken group. Here an Indian went down, there a horse; and with the cry "Tejanos!" the rest of the savage band wheeled and dashed over the route they had come. The last warrior to reach the edge of the pasture was for one instant silhouetted against the sky on the edge of a ravine, and at that moment Hank's rifle cracked. Throwing both arms up over his head, he turned a backward flip from the horse and sprawled inertly in a currant bush. Re-loading as quickly as they could while on the run the two plainsmen hastened to the group, and Tom, pulling Dr. Whiting from his horse, was within an inch of strangling him when Patience's hands on his wrists checked him.

"Six trusty knights!" sneered the enraged plainsman, hurling the doctor from him. "I said you were six flashes. Ask a