Chapter 2

Chris, the others, and I got on our horses, my pinto stallion being very alert. The five of us took off walking at a comfortable pace, and sometimes an ambling trot, towards their herd. It took less than a half an hour to reach the cowboys campsite and we found it under the rifles of seven riders. And those rifles were aimed at the three cowboys, afoot, between the two wagons.

However, there was a shotgun sticking out from beneath the cover of the supply wagon and another from the chuck wagon. Whoever had the shotguns had apparently convinced the seven men that whatever they were planning was not acceptable and should be rethought.

Stepping up our pace, we approached fast and caused the unknown men to turn away from the wagons and address our probable threat. I figured that I was going to die before with the Kiowa and my fate had just been delayed to this moment, so as we got closer, I lowered the tip of my lance in case I had to charge towards the men.

The man in the center turned and spoke to the man on his left. The man on his left said some things with strong gestures and the man in the middle nodded before turning back to us. I’m going to assume that the last thing those cowboys were expecting to see was a group of men, one of which was a sunburned, white man dressed like a Kiowa, charging at them.

The five of us spread out and my new friends all had their rifles generally aimed at the strangers. The seven strangers began to react, lifting rifles into more aggressive positions, when they suddenly stopped cold. The man closest to the chuck wagon looked towards it and froze at a command from inside.

We all slowed to a walk and carefully approached the scene. The Square T ramrod spoke.

“I’m Clete McCalister from the Square T. Why are you attacking my wagons?”

“You’re driving cattle stolen from the Rocking V,” the middle man said.

“No I’m not. This herd was bought and paid for in Waco and I got the papers.”

“Papers can be faked. We’re gonna cut your herd. Unless you want to argue about it.”

“Go ahead ... If you think that five men can get that done against our ten?”

“We have a lot more that will come running if they hear shots.”

I couldn’t hold back and having moved my pinto to be in front of the man to the left of the speaker. I lowered my lance in his direction. I figured their leader wasn’t the man in the center of their line, it was the man that seemed to have given an order to him. I guessed that if the shooting was to start the leader would have bought himself time to shoot back or hightail it out of there by not seeming to be the leader.

My stallion slowly walked forward as I said to the rider to the left of center, “My name is Logan O’Dell. I just got away from a group of Kiowa. I got no rifle but I’m pretty sure that if the shooting starts, before any of your people can get here, between those with the shotguns in the wagon and my friends here with the rifles, I’ll have time to take this here Kiowa lance I took from a brave and stick you clean through the brisket.”

The man sat a little taller like he didn’t know what to do. And the man in the middle said, “What are you talking to him for. I’m the one doing the talking.”

“Yeah, but I think he’s the one giving the orders. So, as they say where I come from, it’s time to fish or cut bait.”

For some reason I can only guess, the fellow closest to the chuck wagon dropped his hand to his pistol and someone in the wagon cut loose with the shotgun. The man closest to the wagon seemed to bend in half, sideways, and slide off his horse. The shotgun from the second wagon exploded and the next man in the line flew off his horse and lay squirming on the ground.

Clete put a bullet into the center man and I kicked my pinto in the slats and he launched forward in one giant leap. My lance ran through the man I thought to be the leader and drove him back off his horse.

While more shooting was going on behind me, I followed my lance off the stallion and stood over the man I’d stuck. The lance was now sticking straight up towards the sky having been driven clean through the cowboy, pinning him to the ground. I turned bracing myself to be shot and killed in the melee behind me, but it was quiet.

The shooting was over and the six cowboys from the Rocking V were all on the ground in various states of dead or dying. I looked around for the Square T riders and Chris was off his horse and had blood covering his shirt from the side. The rest were riding towards the wagons except Clete. He was seeing to his wounded man.

I walked over to the man I’d lanced.

“I hope it was worth it.”

“You gonna scalp me?” He groaned.

“Hell no! I ain’t no injun. I’m just gonna take your guns and outfit to make up for what the Kiowa took from me. Then I’m gonna pull the lance out of your gut and let you bleed out into the ground. Maybe you’ll die before the buzzards, coyotes, and ants start feeding on ya. Maybe not.”

I did as I said and took the man’s gun belt and strapped it on. I walked to his horse and stripped off the saddle and tack and set it on the ground near the pinto. The stallion didn’t care for the bit and bridle so I let him stay with the hackamore. When the cowboy’s outfit was all settled close to the pinto I went back to him. Clete was talking to him and was gonna shoot him and put him out of his pain.

“Clete! Don’t do it.”

He looked at me and then back to the man on the round who was moaning and squirming in agony.

“Why. He’s not gonna make it. It’s the humane thing to do.”

“The humane thing would have been for him and his to have left us alone. Besides I told him what I was gonna do and I don’t lie, not even to bastards like these.”

With those words I took hold of the lance and I moved it back and forth, to and fro, accompanied by the man’s screams of pain, before pulling it up, out of the ground, and finally out of the man. He kept screaming as the lance sawed his innards and when the lance came out he finally cried and begged to be shot.

I looked at Clete and before he could get a thought in his head of what sort of man I was, I pulled the man’s six-shooter from its holster at my side and said, “I’m Logan O’Dell. I would never have done you no harm, ever. And I’m not happy that I have to have your death on my hands. I’ll never forgive you for that.”

I shot him in the head.

“It was the right thing to do, O’Dell.”

“Like I said, I don’t like having his blood on my hands. Who was he? Is there really a Rocking V brand?”

“Nope. He was Asher Bolt and he has five brothers who will want a piece of us if they find out we killed him.”

“WE didn’t kill him. I killed him. And I’ll stand by that. If it comes to it, you stand aside. Now, I need clothes, I’m starting to feel like this Kiowa had fleas,” I complained, scratching under the breech cloth.

Clete smiled and took me to the supply wagon. He called out to someone in the wagon who still had a shotgun but now aimed at me.

“Blue! Get out here!”

“What? Can’t you see there’s an injun out there?”

“I ain’t no injun,” I said in reply, feeling a little peeved.

A thick ball of white hair that seemed to grow all around his head like a dandelion seedling, stuck out from the edge of the wagon.

“What you dressed like that for?”