Leadville by James D. Best Page A

was talking to myself.
    “Boy.”
    “Boy?”
    “Shoot one of the men first, and then go for that boy.”
    “I don’t know if I can shoot a boy.”
    “For God’s sake, Steve, we’re gonna kill the rest.”
    “Don’t give me that, Captain. You want the boy because you think it’ll be easier to make him talk.”
    “Damn it; just tell me … can you do it?”
    “You’re going to kill them from ambush?” I asked. “The other party talked to them.”
    “Someone in the other party was in cahoots with them.”
    “What?”
    “Tell ’em, Red.”
    “If they’d murdered the girl, they would kill anyone who approached and run. Probably the same if they still had the girl. And they wouldn’t parley with a white if one of their own was in the party.”
    “You don’t know that, and you aren’t even sure two different riders went into their camp.”
    “Look at them,” McAllen said. “They show no fear of reprisal. This meadow may be hidden, but it’s low. A good place to ride out a winter, but too close to travel lanes for fugitives. They’re not afraid.”
    “The posse came directly here,” Red added.
    “An’ the posse didn’t attack,” Sharp threw in. “Odd—whether they got the girl back or not. Those men tramped out here to be town heroes.”
    All of them seemed convinced. “Say you’re right. Then the real culprit is back in town, the one that wanted your daughter abducted by these Indians.”
    “Damn it, Steve. This is why I told you to go back. You’re headstrong and always go against my counsel. You did it in Nevada and now here.” McAllen turned his face to the ground and took a deep breath. “Listen, those Indians didn’t ride up and snatch her. She rode into them. Her mother told me she rode the same trail every day, through that pastureland below Mesa Verde—the main route to Colorado from the West. She was an expert rider on a good horse. A band of Indians couldn’t catch her in that open ground. Did you notice that swale close by where she got grabbed?”
    I thought back. “Yeah.”
    “They waited for her. Renegades hiding along a heavily traveled route to capture a girl when she rode into them.” McAllen pounded his fist in the earth. “They knew her routine.”
    I picked up the field glasses to examine the scene and to give myself time to think. Sharp had held reservations from the beginning. McAllen and Red were experienced with Indians, and their Pinkerton jobs forced them to think like criminals. They must be right. I had been forewarned this venture would be brutal, and there was no reason to argue further.
    I pushed the glasses away from my face. “Captain, for me to wound them, we need to exchange rifles. Mine’s designed to kill buffalo.”
    McAllen nodded and we switched rifles. I made a quick examination of his Winchester Model 1873 and then went back to watching the Indians prepare for winter.
    A sharp noise. Damn. The two absent Utes were behind us—directly behind us.

Chapter 12
     
    Everybody went into action. As Sharp and McAllen rolled onto their backs, blazing away, I dropped the field glasses and picked up my rifle. I trusted the others to deal with the two behind me and pointed the rifle at the meadow. The first target that came into my sights was the boy. I shot him in the hip. I shot a second Ute in the upper leg, but he continued to limp toward some objective. I aimed to shoot him again below the waist, but just as I squeezed the trigger, his leg gave out and he fell. A spume of blood exploded from his head. I searched for any others and saw two Utes go down from a series of shots that came from Red. I spotted a lone brave racing toward one of their shelters, and when I squeezed off a single shot, a volley hit him or threw up puffs of dirt behind him. All four of us had shot at the last man. I flipped on my back to check the two who had been behind us. They were dead. All seven of the band were down. To my knowledge, no Ute had fired a