know any more than he did.
âWhat do you suppose happened to him?â Boutelle asked.
âI donât know,â said Finley.
He would, most certainly, not answer that question. Boutelle had shown no desire to understand the Indiansâ point of view. It would do little good for him to tell Boutelle that, as far as he could see, Little Owl had been frightened to death.
Â
She had run, hobbling, all the way to the tethered horse, then walked the horse far out of Picture City. Only there, breathless, a stitch knifing at her side, had she dared to mount and gallop to the wickiup.
She stayed there only long enough to wake her eldest girl and tell her to watch over the other children until her mother returned. She did not tell the girl that Little Owl was dead. There would be time enough for that in the morning.
Right now there was a ride to be made.
Quitting the wickiup hastily, the Apache woman mounted the pony and kicked at its bony sides. The old animal surged forward underneath her, its thin legs driving at the muddy earth. Little Owlâs wife set her teeth and braced herself for the ride.
It was a long way to the camp of Braided Feather.
THURSDAY
6
T he two of them were in Corcoranâs Gunsmith Shop. Al Corcoran was pulling down a rifle from the wall rack. No, Al, pleaded Finley, youâre
wrong.
Al Corcoran didnât say a word. He began to load the rifle. Finley knew that he was going to go after Braided Feather and shoot him. Donât be a fool! he said. If you do that, youâll start the whole thing over again! The treaty wonât be worth the paper itâs written on. Corcoran said nothing. Al! cried Finley. He jerked the rifle out of Corcoranâs hands and threw it on the floor.
Corcoran went over to the wall rack and took down another rifle. For Godâs sake, Al! said Finley. He tore the rifle out of Corcoranâs grip and flung it on the floor. Corcoran drew the pistol from his holster. Al, donât, said Finley. Corcoran squeezed the trigger, and Finley felt a bullet club him on the chest. He fell back against the workbench. Corcoran was walking toward the door, the smoking pistol in his hand. The next one is for Braided Feather, he said. No, it isnât, Finley said vengefully. He drew his pistol out and tried tofire it, but the trigger stuck. When he jerked it desperately, it broke off against his finger like brittle glass. Oh, God! moaned Finley. He lunged for one of the rifles on the floor.
Before Corcoran could get out the door, Finley fired three bullets into his back. Al flung forward onto his face, and Finley staggered to his feet. You wonât break my treaty now, he said. I wonât let you. He fired another bullet into Corcoranâs body.
Then, outside, there was a thundering of hooves. Braided Feather and his men came galloping toward the front of the shop. Finley ran out to tell them that the treaty was safe, but as they galloped up, they threw two torn and bleeding bodies at him. Suddenly, Finley knew he had been wrong. No! he cried. No! I canât be wrong!
Finley jolted in his bed. He sat up, gasping.
Outside and down the street there was a rising thunder of hoofbeats. For a second, Finley sat dazed, staring at the window with sleep-drugged eyes. Then, with a brusque motion, he flung aside the covers and dropped his legs to the floor. He stood and raced across the carpet to the window and jerked up its shade.
It was barely light. Main Street stood empty in the gray of morning. But the thunder was coming closer, and Finley turned his head to the left. Instantly, his mouth dropped open in dumb astonishment.
Galloping into town were approximately three dozen Apache braves.
Finley gaped down at the street with eyes that could not believe what they saw. He looked for the leader of the party and saw, with added shock, that it was Braided Feather. He stared down blankly as the Apache chief went rushing by, the hooves of his horse
âWhat do you suppose happened to him?â Boutelle asked.
âI donât know,â said Finley.
He would, most certainly, not answer that question. Boutelle had shown no desire to understand the Indiansâ point of view. It would do little good for him to tell Boutelle that, as far as he could see, Little Owl had been frightened to death.
Â
She had run, hobbling, all the way to the tethered horse, then walked the horse far out of Picture City. Only there, breathless, a stitch knifing at her side, had she dared to mount and gallop to the wickiup.
She stayed there only long enough to wake her eldest girl and tell her to watch over the other children until her mother returned. She did not tell the girl that Little Owl was dead. There would be time enough for that in the morning.
Right now there was a ride to be made.
Quitting the wickiup hastily, the Apache woman mounted the pony and kicked at its bony sides. The old animal surged forward underneath her, its thin legs driving at the muddy earth. Little Owlâs wife set her teeth and braced herself for the ride.
It was a long way to the camp of Braided Feather.
THURSDAY
6
T he two of them were in Corcoranâs Gunsmith Shop. Al Corcoran was pulling down a rifle from the wall rack. No, Al, pleaded Finley, youâre
wrong.
Al Corcoran didnât say a word. He began to load the rifle. Finley knew that he was going to go after Braided Feather and shoot him. Donât be a fool! he said. If you do that, youâll start the whole thing over again! The treaty wonât be worth the paper itâs written on. Corcoran said nothing. Al! cried Finley. He jerked the rifle out of Corcoranâs hands and threw it on the floor.
Corcoran went over to the wall rack and took down another rifle. For Godâs sake, Al! said Finley. He tore the rifle out of Corcoranâs grip and flung it on the floor. Corcoran drew the pistol from his holster. Al, donât, said Finley. Corcoran squeezed the trigger, and Finley felt a bullet club him on the chest. He fell back against the workbench. Corcoran was walking toward the door, the smoking pistol in his hand. The next one is for Braided Feather, he said. No, it isnât, Finley said vengefully. He drew his pistol out and tried tofire it, but the trigger stuck. When he jerked it desperately, it broke off against his finger like brittle glass. Oh, God! moaned Finley. He lunged for one of the rifles on the floor.
Before Corcoran could get out the door, Finley fired three bullets into his back. Al flung forward onto his face, and Finley staggered to his feet. You wonât break my treaty now, he said. I wonât let you. He fired another bullet into Corcoranâs body.
Then, outside, there was a thundering of hooves. Braided Feather and his men came galloping toward the front of the shop. Finley ran out to tell them that the treaty was safe, but as they galloped up, they threw two torn and bleeding bodies at him. Suddenly, Finley knew he had been wrong. No! he cried. No! I canât be wrong!
Finley jolted in his bed. He sat up, gasping.
Outside and down the street there was a rising thunder of hoofbeats. For a second, Finley sat dazed, staring at the window with sleep-drugged eyes. Then, with a brusque motion, he flung aside the covers and dropped his legs to the floor. He stood and raced across the carpet to the window and jerked up its shade.
It was barely light. Main Street stood empty in the gray of morning. But the thunder was coming closer, and Finley turned his head to the left. Instantly, his mouth dropped open in dumb astonishment.
Galloping into town were approximately three dozen Apache braves.
Finley gaped down at the street with eyes that could not believe what they saw. He looked for the leader of the party and saw, with added shock, that it was Braided Feather. He stared down blankly as the Apache chief went rushing by, the hooves of his horse
Similar Books
