The Five Dollar Mail Book 3: The Road Home

62: All the Manitos of Mischief

Cover painting by Angela Taratuta. Chapter artwork made from found images by me.  All graphics by me.

Book 1: The Green, Book 2: Lynch's Boys, Book 3: The Road Home, and the Riders & Kickers Anthology are available on Amazon under the name Regina Shelley. So if you hate waiting for chapter posts and/or want a more polished read, the finished product is available now.

Why the hell am I letting this go? Collins scowled, listening to the sounds of night as his horse plodded dispiritedly along the cottonwoods clustered along the Green River. We're out here on the word of a red-haired English slut. Scarcliff has lost his damned mind. And I'm sick of being the one who pays for it.

The Green was a bolt of silver, cutting across the rocky landscape in the moonlight. There were Indians close by. He could occasionally catch a whiff of the smoke from cooking fires somewhere off in the distance. Probably a village. That's all we need. If we're not careful, it will be Pyramid Lake all over again.

And I have no intention of getting myself killed because Scarcliff is trying to get into some whore's petticoats.

He paused, stopping his horse, and listening. Nothing.

His small detachment of men was sweeping quietly over the nearby area. He didn't like not knowing where his Indian scouts were. Their presence always made him uneasy. No telling if or when they might turn on us. They're useful...but so's dynamite. One the stuff starts to sweat a little, it can turn you into a messy pile of crow food.

"Lieutenant..."

Collins spun around, instantly, his pistol in his hand.

"Lieutenant, it's me." His youngest scout was standing back along the tree line. That cinnamon-faced half breed, whatever his name is. Bad Medicine or some such...

Scowling, Collins lowered his pistol, but didn't reholster it as he slid from his mount's back. "What is it?"

"I found something, sir," the young man said, approaching him. "If I may speak..."

Collins could see the dark freckles mottling the scout's face in the moonlight. Of all the people I should have to deal with right now, it would be this mongrel bastard. "Out with it."

"The Captain's right about where the next attack's going to be."

"And how would you know that?"

"Because I just spent the last couple of hours up a tree, hoping Red Horn and his men didn't look up."

Collin's ears pricked up. "Red Hornis here? He was with the Paiutes?"

"He's here, yes." Bad Medicine nodded. "But he's not running with the Paiutes, sir. The woman got it right." He held up an arrow, and showed Collins the fletching. "Found this. This isn't Indian made. This was cobbled together by someone who didn't know how to make arrows."

Collins peered at Bad Medicine skeptically, and reholstered his pistol. He took offered arrow, inspecting it suspiciously. "How can you tell?"

Bad Medicine shrugged, gesturing with an empty hand. A cocky smirk tugged at his lip "Because I do know how to make arrows, sir. Red Horn's running with mostly white outlaws. They're behind these attacks, and they're setting it up to look like it's Indians."

"You're sure about this?"

"Yes, sir, I am. And there's more of them than I saw." His face grew serious. "I know Captain Scarcliff's men are out at the Ferguson farm. They may be outnumbered if we're right about that being the next target."

An owl was hooting softly somewhere in the trees, a chilly breeze hissing softly through the shadows. Scarcliff turned the arrow over in his hands, inspecting the fletching sceptically. It felt stiff, almost like chicken feathers. He flipped it around and ran his thumb carefully over the stone point of the tip. "It's sharp," he observed. "Nice straight edge. You saying this is faked?"

Bad Medicine nodded again. "That point's probably genuine, but it's faulty. And it's attached to a faked shaft, sir. That arrow was made by white men, and wasn't meant to ever fly straight. It's sloppy."

"I see." Collins' mind raced through the implications of this, and let his breath out in slow, heavy hiss. If he's right...we could lose a lot of men tonight. Scarcliff's going to be walking right into an ambush. "Have you talked to the Captain or any of the couriers about this? Who was with you?"

"I came straight to you." Bad Medicine gestured towards the water shining in the moonlight, peering away down silvered darkness as if he might spot the other scout. "Wounded's about a mile upriver. I haven't seen anyone else all night. As soon as it was clear, I came down out of the tree and headed towards you."

Collins nodded, tapping the arrow against his palm. "You did the right thing." His eyes scanned the river. "We're going to have to rally and get out to the farm. Do you know where we have men posted?"

"Yes, sir. I think the closest ones are half a mile away," Bad Medicine stepped past him towards the water, and pointed downriver. "You're about a quarter mile from where I thought I'd find you."

"There were...miscalculations," Collins said, sweeping an arm around Bad Medicine's neck, clamping a hand hard over his mouth and jerking his head back. Before the scout could react, Collins drove the arrow into the soft hollow of his throat, fighting to hold him still as he convulsed in pain and shock. The scout's hand was grabbing blindly at his pistol, and Collins spun him around, still holding onto the arrow, and slamming him into a tree. Bad Medicine's pistol spun uselessly away into the brush as his blood jetted across Collin's coat sleeve and flew in stinging drops across his hands and face.

He could feel Bad Medicine's fingers clawing wildly at his arms and Collins wondered how the man was still fighting him even as he bled out. He tightened his grip and hung on, feeling the scout's legs going limp and his arms weakening. Collins shoved him away, letting him collapse among the wet, black-shining leaves.

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