Chapter 2: Indian Outlaw

Riding into St. Johns, Hoyt had a good feeling about himself. For the first time since he was old enough to do a days work, he didn’t have a real job. Yet, he’d made more money this week than he’d made in any three years of his life.

At the courthouse, he met with Apache County Sheriff, Braden Wills.

“Hoyt, I got one here for you that I’d like to get cleaned up as soon as we can. This’n is gonna to be a tough one, but from what Marshal Freeman told me, you can get the job done if anyone can. The county don’t have the money to pay you annual deputy’s wages, but you’ll make more money like this anyway...

“ ... Oh, a friend of mine at the Marshal’s Service over in Phoenix has asked if I knew of anyone they could hire. I sent them a telegraph message this morning and gave them your name, after Willys told me how you handled Billy McLane...

“ ... Now, back to this Indian Outlaw. He’s a Half-Breed Apache who goes by the name of Red Wing. He makes his home somewhere up in the northern part of the county ranging from up around Alamo Spring, back down to Shanto Spring. You’ll be in the Puerco River Valley, west of Canyon De Chelley ... as you can see here on this map,” Sheriff Wills told him, pointing to the landmarks on his map.

“Sheriff, have you got an extra one of these Arizona Territorial maps? I’ll never remember all of this and I’ve never been up in that part of the county before.”

“Take this one. I have another one in my desk.”

“What’s this – Red Wing – Half-Breed wanted for and what’s the reward?”

“You name it and he’s done it all, at one time or another. This time, he’s wanted for murdering a man, raping and killing his wife, then kidnapping their two daughters. The reward is twelve hundred – Dead or Alive. Here’s his wanted poster with a hand-penciled drawing of him. That’s the best I can do for you.”

Hoyt thought about taking a packmule with him, but decided to pack the bare essentials for his camp and make better time with just him and Buck. After studying his map before starting out, and using the scale at the bottom, he figured a good hundred and thirty miles up to Canyon De Chelley.

Riding nearly the same trail north as he’d taken on his way up to Navajo Springs, and using his map as a guide, he cut back to the northwest before he came to Defiance Creek. From there, it was only a few miles up to Billings, a small whistle-stop community at the railroad, with only a few stores and houses.

Since he was still good on camp supplies, he kept riding. His plan was to get across the high-rolling prairie north of the railroad, and make Cottonwood Creek by dark.

The red glow in the western sky gave just enough light for Hoyt as he took his camp pack, bridle and his saddle off Buck, then turned him loose. He knew what Buck was going to do as soon as he saw the bare, red-dirt area near the creek. While Hoyt was gathering brush and dry limbs for a fire, Buck was wallowing in the red dirt, even before he went to the creek for a drink.

He had his coffee on to boil and was getting Buck’s feedbag out when the Buckskin walked up and stood next to him. While Buck was eating his oats, Hoyt drank his coffee and chewed a mouthful of dried beef.

He always knew when Buck was finished with his oats. The big Buckskin shook his head from side to side, then lowered his head so Hoyt could take the strap off his neck. He watched as his horse walked over to get another drink, then wallowed around in the red dirt again before walking over next to where Hoyt had his bedroll laid out.

Buck was still standing there the next morning when Hoyt threw the cover off his bedroll. The two of them had things worked out pretty good between them. They’ve been together long enough, that neither one had to ask the other one what to do next. Hoyt scooped Buck a couple of handfuls of oats into his feedbag, then strapped it on his neck.

He stoked his dying coals with dry grass and twigs then broke a few small limbs to put on it. While his fire was building, he added more coffee to the leftover grounds, with a little more water. With his coffeepot on the fire, Hoyt walked out a ways with a wad of newspaper in his hand.

By the time he was through with his morning ritual, his coffee was boiling and there was light coming to the eastern sky. Before he poured a cup of hot coffee, he took Buck’s feedbag off so he could go play in the dirt and get a drink.

They still had a long ways to go, and according to his map, the terrain would become even more rugged by the mile.

Before they left, Hoyt took his time brushing the red dirt out of Buck’s hair. By the time his true colors were showing through, he had him brushed clean and ready to saddle up for another long day’s ride.

Looking at his map again before mounting, he knew they’d come to Pueblo-Colorado Wash within another mile or so. They crossed Cottonwood Creek, then skirted to the west of the boulders and jagged, hog-back ridges ahead of, and to the east of them.

The wash is just a wide, deep, dry riverbed most of the year, but when the rains come to the high country up north, the wash becomes a roaring, angry muddy river filled with brush, limbs and whole trees, as it empties into Leroux Wash to the south, before making its way into the Little Colorado River down near the town of Aztec.

Hoyt spotted a place where they could cross the dry wash, and turned Buck down the slope, then across the wide dry bed, to ride out of the wash on the west side. From here, they cut a trail northeast, following the wash, by riding a hundred feet or so out from its meandering walls.

He thought about making a run over to Fort Defiance, to ask around about Red Wing, but that would be miles out of his way and add another day to his trip north. Before dark, Hoyt spotted a tall, jagged rock formation to the west. Looking at his map, he knew this had to be Eagle Crag, marked plainly on his map.

He figured another full day’s ride up to Shanto Spring, where he’d cut across Rio Puerco and ride into Canyon De Chelley. By this time tomorrow, he would be riding through Red Wing’s stomping grounds.

Cutting away from the wash, they turned due north. There was still good light when they came to a small lake surrounded by trees. This would be their campsite for the night.

He pulled his saddle and camp pack off Buck, then slipped his bridle off. By the time Buck had found a place to wallow, then get his fill of water, Hoyt had his fire built and his coffee on. Buck ate his oats as Hoyt drank his coffee and made his meal on jerked beef and stale biscuits.

There was still plenty of light when they finished eating, and after taking a walk back and forth along the lake shore, Hoyt decided they were alone so he stripped to wade out into the lake and bathe.

During the night, he was awakened by the sound of distant thunder. As he lay in his bedroll, looking at the clear sky overhead, he could tell the storm was off in the distance to the northeast. Too far gone to be of any threat. He drifted off to sleep, awakening again when Buck nudged him.

There was light, low on the eastern horizon, but there were dark, heavy clouds looming overhead.

They were fed, watered, saddled and packed in a matter of minutes. He could tell the storm was building in the north again and he wanted to cross Rio Puerco before the waters rose too high. He wasn’t familiar with this country, but he’d heard enough about canyon country to know there could already be flash floods building in the hills and high country to the north. He’d heard about walls of water coming down a river or a canyon, before a horse and rider could reach high ground ... especially if they were in a gorge or a really narrow canyon.

There was a small stream flowing from the north end of lake, but Hoyt was sure this wasn’t Rio Puerco. He pulled his map out for a closer look, then saw the stream running north, miles to the west of Rio Puerco.

They crossed the stream and headed east, toward Rio Puerco and what he hoped was Canyon De Chelley in the distance. He could see the tall red walls, and from looking at his map, he knew this had to be the canyon he was looking for.

When the rain first started, Hoyt reached back and loosened his slicker. With it buttoned from his neck to his straddle, they rode on.

He was more concerned about reaching higher ground now, than he was about finding the Indian Outlaw. The thunder was a constant roaring rumble in the north. The skies in that direction were like blue midnight – streaked with lightning. Here, the rains were coming in blowing sheets with periods of hard downpours.

Before they reached the entrance to the canyon, he could see the tall rock columns standing erect – as if they were sentinels guarding the gate. They were like monuments, back inside the canyon, pointing toward the sky. There was a small river in the canyon and the waters were already rolling as it flowed southwest through the mouth of the canyon, back toward Rio Puerco.

Once inside the wide walls of Canyon De Chelley, Hoyt began looking for a way to reach higher ground. Ahead of him, he could see a cliff with a wide ledge high above the canyon floor. Hoping there was a trail leading up the canyon wall, he turned Buck that way. Knowing time was limited, they had to find safety. Urging Buck faster in that direction, the big horse sensed the danger, and broke into a fast gallop instead of his usual ground-covering canter. Just as they reached the base of the cliff, Hoyt heard the earth-shaking, ear-shattering roar.

Flash Flood!

He had never seen nor heard a flash flood before in his life, but when he heard that sound, there was no doubt about what it was. He tried to turn Buck the other way and outrun the wall of water back through the canyon entrance. Buck was stubborn, jerking his head back – fighting at the bit as he kept going at an angle up the slope. Finally, they broke out onto that high ledge, looking down at the canyon floor, over a hundred feet below. The water – now bottlenecked at the canyon entrance – was rising fast and though they were still fifty feet or more above the rising water, Hoyt Malone felt the fear of death for the first time in his life.

If the water reached them, there was no way out except for Buck to try and swim through the narrow mouth of canyon and out into the flat country where they would still be washed away by the wall of water.

The water was rising fast – now it was less than ten feet below the ledge they were on. Then – the roar became so loud, it was deafening – shaking the air around them. He felt Buck tremble, and reached out to pat his neck just as the second wall of water – like a giant ocean wave – washed past the cliff they were on. Hoyt held Buck back against the red rock wall as close as he could, to keep the raging currents from sweeping both of them away.

The water was up to his stirrups, then up past his waist as he pulled Buck’s head higher, keeping his nose out of the rust colored, dirty water.

Time seemed to stand still, as Hoyt waited for the next wave, and the water to rise even more...

As the water slowly crept even higher, he was about to spur his big horse and plunge him out into the roaring flood, to let him try swimming to safety...

... Then suddenly, the water dropped below the ledge they were on. Faster than the wall of water had risen, the waters of the flash flood were receding. Yet, he held Buck tight against the side of the cliff, waiting for another wave. When the water level had dropped until he could see the canyon floor along the base of the wall, he turned Buck down the sloping trail.

By the time they made their way to the bottom, the sun was shining in the north and though the river was still flooding the canyon floor in places, the water level was falling even faster than it had risen.

With the water receding from the walls of the canyon, Hoyt turned Buck back the other way, riding east, deeper into the canyon in hopes of finding shelter for the night.

He had ridden no more than a mile, when they came around a sharp bend in the canyon wall – and met three Indians. They were were walking, dressed in white shirts and pants. He had seen both Apache and Hopi Indians before, long ago. Now, he hoped these weren’t Apache.

“White-Man ride big horse out of water?” the one in the lead asked.

“We were high up on the rocks, when the water passed,” he told him.

“Where you go now?” Another Indian asked.

“To find shelter for the night.”

“Come, we take you,” the first one spoke again, waving his hand before turning back toward the way they had come.

They carried no weapons, so he went with them as the Indians walked beside Buck.

“Where White-Man from?”

“St. Johns. The county seat.”

“Yes, we know county seat. Why you come here?”

“I’m looking for a man who’s killed men, women and children.”

“You the law-man?” The one who appeared to be the leader asked.

“No, but I work for the law. I hunt the bad men and take them back to the law.”

“And if the bad man won’t go?”