Educated Injun

EDUCATED INJUN

A Merle and Hawk Adventure

Book One

R.L. Kiser

Published by KiseSoft unInc.

Smashwords Edition

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission, in writing, of the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1301622566

This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are strictly from the imagination of the author. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.

Cover art by Laura Gordon Designs.

CONTENTS

Top

Well Here I am

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

About The Author

Click on any Chapter Title to return to the Table of Contents

WELL HERE I AM

Educated Injun

"Well, here I am, he mused to himself. Merle Johnson, age thirty two, six feet two inches, two hundred ten pounds, retired cavalry officer, cow puncher, and now cattle rustler. How the hell did I get myself into this mess?" Here he was on the run, people he didn’t even know wanted to kill him, and he hadn’t done anything wrong. Hooked up with an educated Indian that said he was a U.S. Marshal, going God-knew-where. What the hell was he doing? Why was he riding with this man?

Hawk said, Where else are you going to go?

Startled out of his introspection Merle replied, What!?

Hawk said, You're wondering what the hell you're doing here. Why you're riding along with me.

Merle looked at him, blinked twice, and said, You…how…what…

Hawk tilted his head down peering out from beneath his eyebrows and gave Merle that look that said, I'm an Indian.

Merle shook his head to clear it and said, No, nah, don’t gimme that look. Just 'cause you’re an Injun…

Hawk smiled a relaxing smile and said, I'm also perceptive.

Merle mumbled, Percep…what?

Hawk continued, I see your quandary.

Merle blinked again, his brow furrowing, and exclaimed, Quandary!? What the hell does cuttin' granite slabs have to do with it?

Still with that slight I’m-messing-with-you smile on his face Hawk chuckled, That's quarry.

What?

Quarry. Where they cut granite slabs. He paused for a second and continued. I perceive your quandary, slowly stressing the word 'quandary'. He dropped his horse back a half step to where he was directly opposite the big cowboy and looked directly into his confused face. I can see your confusion.

Merle's face relaxed a little as he breathed out, Uh-huh. Under his breath he muttered, Educated Injun my butt.

CHAPTER 1

Educated Injun

It was one of those kinds of sunsets that made you want to stop and just sit there in the saddle, roll up a Bull Durham, and enjoy all the wonderful colors Mother Nature had to work with.

And it was one of those kind of days that if you did that you'd probably end up with a 30-30 slug busting out of your chest from one of those fellahs chasing you, for whatever reason. Damn! And it started out such a good day.

It was a long, hard cattle drive. More because of the elements than the distance. Lightning and thunder stampeded the herd more than once. The unusually heavy rains, the flash floods, being swept down river on horseback fighting swift moving logs trying to rescue a calf. There was a story for one of those dime novels.

But this whole crew was good. They'd only lost seventeen head altogether. Brought seven hundred eighty three head into the holding pens yesterday morning. Had a good meal and a few too many drinks, a good night's sleep in a real bed, a bath and now dressed up in his other clothes, black pants, crisp white shirt with a thin black string tie. The boots and the hat were the same only shined and cleaned. Now he'd go collect the rest of his pay.

Simpson did that, smart cuss that he was. He gave the cowhands only enough to get drunk and gamble, maybe seek some female companionship, no more than a tenth of their pay once the herd was in. That way they didn't piss it all away that first night. Just enough cash in their pockets to let off some steam. Oh, sure, a few of them would probably drink and gamble it away by the end of the week, but at least the old man gave them a chance. They could pick up the rest of their wages the next day.

So he did. That was when that funny looking fellah in those skinny city duds hired him on Simpson's recommendation to take four horses and sixteen head of cattle over the hill through the canyon to Hunstville. He already hired two drovers, but said he needed someone in charge he could trust to deliver the herd. They were seedy looking characters.

He'd just come off a tough drive but man, a twenty dollar gold piece for one day’s work? That would keep him supplied with liquor, fancy women, and clean sheets for a week or more. So he changed back into his trail duds, which were clean now; the cotton beige pants, sort of a neutral dun color, same color thick cotton shirt, dark oxblood leather vest, same boots, same black Stetson hat, and the dark leather, silver trimmed holster that was neither black nor maroon, but somewhere in between, that held the sleek, compact Colt .45 Peacemaker six shot revolver given to him by a salesman from back east.

He and the two seedy looking characters took the herd north toward that cut through the hills to Huntsville some thirty miles distant. Somewhere in the back of his mind something kept trying to tell him that something was wrong. One of those knawing types of feelings that when you don't listen to it you end up being wrong every time.

They were strung out in the canyon. One of the guys suggested he go into a small offshoot to retrieve one of the cows that wandered away, then he rode away. A quick glance told him there weren't any cattle in there, no tracks. And he was wondering why the man couldn't go in himself when that knawing in the pit of his stomach became a buzz saw.

He grabbed his Winchester lever action 30-30, cocked it, and quietly climbed down from the saddle. Leaving the horse in the alcove he stole back to the canyon and walked forward to where it curved. Sure enough, there was one of his seedy companions directing two other hombres to take position behind a large boulder on the canyon floor. An ambush. That boulder came from somewhere. He looked up and saw a lot of loose rocks and shale beneath an overhang. While one of the men was still jockeying for position behind the boulder, the other looking for a spot opposite to set up crossfire, he took aim on what looked to be one of the support rocks and fired.

Good guess. The impact from the slug shattered the rock causing the rock and shale behind it to shower down just behind the boulder. A couple of chunks of rock were as big as your head. One of them caught the man on his upraised forearm hard enough that with an audible crack it drove the arm into the man's head and propelled him back against the large boulder hard enough to knock him out.

The one directing them had already turned and was riding away from them. The other man jumped with a start and fired two quick blind bursts down the canyon with his rifle from the hip.

As soon as he fired at the rock Merle pulled the lever ejecting the brass cartridge, which loaded another shell into the breech. Now, with the other man firing wildly, he took careful aim, squeezed the trigger and almost as if he could see in slow motion watched the expanding gases propel the spinning lead bullet straight ahead into the meaty part of the man's right shoulder. He could see the fabric of the man's shirt indent as the bullet made contact. Then the spray of blood and pieces of raw meat as it penetrated and came out the other side. Then the impact forced the man's shoulder back pulling the rest of his body with it.

Merle turned and started back for his horse, but took only a few steps. The animal came forward to meet him flaring its nostrils at the heavy smell of cordite. He mounted and rode quickly toward the end of the canyon, approaching the opening cautiously. A quick glance revealed his two former companions desperately trying to gather up a scattered herd.

He sat there for a moment sheltered by the edges of the canyon wondering what he was going to do. He did what he always did when he didn't know what to do. Roll a cigarette and sit there smoking while you think about what you're going to do. Eventually a solution would present itself.

After a few moments something in the distance caught his eye. From his saddle bag he withdrew his army issue brass telescope, one of the only remaining souvenirs of his stint with the United States Calvary. Dangerous line of work, that. Not nearly enough pay for the risks taken whether chasing outlaw gangs in the badlands or fighting renegade Comanches. He retired as a first lieutenant when his first enlistment was up. But they had good telescopes.

He extended and focused the lens. There in front of the cloud of dust were several riders led by a man in a long, white duster on a white fronted Appaloosa. He counted twelve riders. Oddly enough the one in the lead wearing the white duster lifted his head and seemed to look right into the lens with cold, calculating, piercing, steely blue eyes. It was eerie. But maybe he was just edgy from the recent fracas.

He heaved a sigh of relief. Maybe they'd help round up the herd once he explained what happened. But that sigh of relief came too soon.

In the distance he saw the leader on the Appaloosa talking to one of his bushwhacking buddies. The man was talking animatedly and pointing back in this direction. Two of the riders peeled off to help round up the herd. The rest took off in a gallop toward the canyon opening.

See, wait a while, smoke a cigarette, and the solution would present itself. It wasn't always what you wanted, and most times not even what you'd think. Right now the solution was to head off to the right away from the riders, ride as fast as you can for as long as you can. They didn't look to be in the mood for explanations and that piece of paper in his pocket about the horses and cattle wouldn't stop a bullet.

A mile into his fast ride across the plains he spotted two of the horses that had become separated from the herd and wandered out here. They stood close to one another and were nipping at tufts of prairie grass. He slowed to a walk so he wouldn't spook them. The tan colored gelding closest to him lifted his head giving him a sidelong look, then went back to cropping the grass. He was able to ride up beside him and gently slip a loop around his neck. This horse was already broken and trained.

As he led the horse away the other one followed. He gently eased them into a trot, then a fast gallop. Pacing himself and the three animals he would run hard for a mile or so, then slow to a fast walk until they caught their breath. Then back to a fast gallop.

Using a trick an old cowhand showed him he fashioned a knotted single reign bridle out of a piece of rope and put that on the gelding. Then without bothering with his saddle and all that gear slid onto the strong beast bareback to give his own horse some relief.

By late afternoon he found a single, scrawny tree by a small watering hole. He stopped to water the back of his neck and the horse's, rolled a cigarette, and dug out the telescope. Only by really concentrating could he make out anyone following him, but they were there. He covered a lot of ground.

He also noticed that except for right around the water hole itself the ground was all hard packed. Their tracks leading up to here were faint at best. Those following him wouldn't have any trouble tracking him to the waterhole, especially if any of them knew the territory. But from here on he had a better shot at losing them.

Using the telescope he scouted the land in front of them. Off to the right ahead the ground looked to be even harder, covered with a lot of rock. Also looked like it sloped down. To the left was hard packed dirt and scrub. If he did this right he might be able to send them off in the wrong direction for quite a ways.

A horse and rider set down a heavier, deeper print than a horse unladen. A really good tracker could even tell the difference on hard pack where there was barely a print at all. Most couldn't. And hardly anyone could track someone over hard pack and rocks, except that Sioux scout with them up in the badlands. He could probably track a bird through miles of sky.

And there was that former sheriff who sometimes hired out to the Pinkertons. He'd been known to track people down through water, rocks, even sand after a wind storm. But he wouldn't be out here.

The plan was to set the horses running off through the hard pack while he peeled off to the right through the rocks and down the slope. He brought them up to a fast gallop then dropped back along the gelding as far as the single reign would reach, snapping another piece of rope making the horse run as fast as he could, then gently eased his own horseback letting the other two horses run on through the hard pack.

He slowed and let his horse gently pick its way across the rocks and down the gentler slope. A hundred yards down he hit hard pack again. He proceeded at a slow trot for a while, a faster pace would have left a heavier print. Then he sped up and continued on north. He'd left the other two horses running west-northwest.

He continued north until he came to a twenty five foot drop off. And now here he sat looking at Mother Nature paint the end of the day. He looked behind him and decided he had time for that cigarette after all.

CHAPTER 2

Educated Injun

"Well, here I am, he mused to himself. Merle Johnson, age thirty two, six feet two inches, two hundred ten pounds, retired cavalry officer, cow puncher, and now cattle rustler. How the hell did I get myself into this mess?"

As the sun was obscured by some low clouds in the west it threw some sharp shadows off to his left revealing a sharp incline,