Joel 'Hatchets' Miller: Battling the Bozeman

By Chris G. Derrick

““My stumble was an accident, mister. Your action was deliberate.”
Steve felt himself being pushed away unceremoniously with an elbow as Ed took a couple of paces backwards in order to give himself sufficient room to draw, and raise, his pistol. The man with the bottle moved a whole lot faster. A hard right flick of his wrist broke the bottom off the bottle, leaving an evil looking circle of jagged, razor sharp, glass - poking up and away from the hand holding it. Continuing with the same movement the glass container was brought upwards at speed, slashing hard from front to back on the left side of the other man’s neck. It finally came to a halt when thrust firmly upwards, where it became embedded in the area of soft skin underneath Ed’s lower jaw. Steve’s riding buddy sank slowly to his knees, the left shoulder and front of his shirt becoming almost instantly saturated in a flood of gushing red. Each time his heart beat once so the flow of the thick, crimson, life-giving fluid would increase.”

The Bozeman Trail wagon master, Joel ‘Hatchets’ Miller, takes over the spotlight in this the fifth novel.
He’s accompanied on his frequent journeys by a Chiricahua ‘dikohe’ – an extremely rare term when used in reference to a female, even an Apache. It’s used to describe an individual who has undergone a period of intense warrior training, in preparation for a life of constant conflict.

The characters are many - as well as varied.
Two former store keepers from back east, seeking a new life as would be prospectors, who happen to be at the right place to save Joel from a slow death.
We have a hard-bitten US lawman with a particularly brutal method of bringing in his most deadly, violent, prisoners. Now he finds himself distracted from what was to be his next pursuit to exact revenge on behalf of an elderly woman whose husband was brutally murdered. He’s riding with a partner on this trip – one who’s looking for a little excitement.
The two men he’s seeking for the violent killing are themselves interested in a trio of riders who are earnestly looking to recover the valuable contents of a strong box for the owner of the Montana Gold and Mineral Company – the MGMC. As it is, they’re currently unaware what they’re searching for is in the possession of Joel and his companions.
There’re others equally involved in this tale.
Whether interested solely in the riches which were originally to be found within the metal container or in someone who is – all have a legitimate reason to be there!
Then there’s the band of marauding Sioux – who are never to be ignored.
Currently creating their own brand of mayhem and causing trouble for all!

Will Joel and his friends successfully evade the evil intentions of the Sioux, and the other ‘interested’ parties, and make it around to Virginia City while still retaining the riches which came their way by sheer chance?
It won’t be easy................!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris G. Derrick
• Release date: Mar 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463907634

Chris G. Derrick

Chris G Derrick was born and grew up in a small town situated between the cities of Bath and Bristol in the south west of the UK. Born in 1957 his favourite genre of film has always been the Western. A birthday treat to watch The Magnificent Seven with some young friends when he was around six years of age no doubt had a hand in developing his life long appreciation of the Old West. After leaving school Chris started his working life as an accountant, with a short spell in HM Royal Marines in his early twenties. From the 1980’s onwards he earned a living as an IT professional up until the end of March 2013. Chris’s favourite part of the world happened to be the South Western states of the USA – Arizona, Nevada, New Mexico, Texas and Utah. He'd always enjoyed writing, creating a picture with words, and still maintained his affection for a good Western and the cowboy way of life. With this in mind Chris decided he'd combine these three things - and write a Western himself set in those states of the USA. The Tainted Dollar was written with a keen eye on western history, and there are plans for other books to follow. Each one will retain Jake Base - if not as the main then certainly as a central character within each story.

Book preview

Joel ‘Hatchets’ Miller – Battling the Bozeman.

By Chris G Derrick

Copyright 2019 Chris G. Derrick

Smashwords Edition

The first in the Bozeman Trail series of novels.

Chapter 1. Late May 1867. Dakota Territory. (To be known as Wyoming Territory from July 1868).

Whoa….WHOA. Dammitt…..

An unmistakable, but necessary, sense of urgency permeated through the man’s voice, as his knees instinctively gripped the horse’s flanks tighter.

The animal shook its head, snorted as if deciding on its course of future action, then came to a desperately needed halt.

Steadyyyy now….. Ye gods. No more scares. I can’t afford you makin’ too many steps – not in any direction.

Under normal circumstances the matter of his steed taking any number of strides wouldn’t have been sufficient reason to fill him with dread. This, however, was far removed from what could be considered an ‘ordinary’ situation.

To the left of the seated rider was a tall tree. While being devoid of most of its foliage it was welcome only in as much as it provided a little much needed respite from the sun’s midday rays. Slung over one of the lower branches was a rope – one end of which was firmly encircling the rider’s neck. His hands? They were firmly tied – not together, but to the brown leather belt encircling his waist which a little while earlier supported two ex-native tomahawks as well as his own firearms.

The man surveyed the area around him as best he could with limited movement. Slow and easy was the order of the day – being extra careful not to spook his mount. Nothing appeared to move. It was at times like this he wished he travelled across land which could claim more in the way of permanent inhabitants – as well as a greater number of passing, casual, travelers.

Stay still – I’m sure someone will be along soon.

If not I’ll likely be the only one of us they find. Could be whoever comes by will do me the final kindness of cutting down what’s left, and be Christian enough to bury me a few feet under. Hopefully not at the base of this damn tree.

Joel ‘Hatchets’ Miller. At first glance a man typical of not only the time in which he lived but also of the location where he chose to reside and conduct his affairs. When strangers asked him how he earned a crust there was a standard listing of occupations which he recounted – always in the same order and all factual. Soldier, and wagon master working the Oregon Trail, amongst others. A cowboy (if it so happened to be the only paying work available), and even a badge-wearing lawman in a couple of dusty old cow-towns featured.

The two razor-sharp native tomahawks which usually hung securely from his belt gave rise to his frequently used nickname - Hatchets. The majority of his associates of several years standing knew him only as that – having no idea of the name given to him by his late parents a little under thirty years previously. The band of Sioux who left him in this most precarious situation gleefully relieved him of the bladed weapons – and almost everything else he could lay claim to. While one of the two axes was nothing special, the second was a pipe tomahawk which could be used in the smoking of tobacco if its owner was so inclined. Of that example he was indeed fond. He’d taken it from the still warm body of a Cherokee warrior who’d foolishly attempted to ambush him while he was riding through a forest with his mind full of other details. It’d also been touch and go back there for a while, he remembered with an involuntary and violent shudder.

Humphhh. If my memory serves it was an incident which had a lot in common with my current situation.

After this close brush with death he made a promise to himself. Never ride anywhere without keeping his mind totally focused on the trail ahead, as well as on his immediate surroundings. Up to ninety minutes or so ago his self-made pledge of constant awareness worked as planned. On several occasions it prevented him from making what could’ve been fatal errors. Today there was the briefest period of relaxation, with the first coffee of the day, and it all began to go wrong.

His female Chiricahua Apache companion fared considerably better. Once again the almost animal instinct she seemingly possessed provided her, as well as both of them on previous occasions, with an important prior warning of trouble. One minute she was sitting next to him enjoying her coffee – then was gone. She simply melted away into the bushes surrounding their small camp. It was eerie in the extreme – as if she’d never been squatting there. The fact there were two metal coffee mugs sitting, empty, on the stones next to the camp’s fire, and a visible but slight depression in the sand were the only tangible shreds of evidence to prove her existence, and to show he wasn’t losing his mind.

Inayat, an Apache name which meant Kindness, had been with Joel now for the last four years – give or take. Way back they’d undertaken a ceremony at her instigation which Joel always assumed was some sort of Apache wedding ritual. It didn’t worry him either way. He’d never been married so could please himself. If he was ever destined to take a wife he felt he could do a whole lot worse than Inayat.

Hell, the woman could even understand and speak a little English.

It meant they could converse over and above the level which would’ve been possible from only using the most basic form of sign language. She’d also endured a form of warrior preparation which the Chiricahua referred to as ‘dikohe’. It was a fact which alone would’ve been sufficient to single her out as being rather special. Even within the war-like native tribes it was unusual for a woman to be allowed to participate, and undergo, such extreme training. A full council of her tribe’s elders were initially required to agree with the proposition of a woman undergoing the education for war – which, after all, was what it was. If Inayat hadn’t been able to communicate in English so proficiently these details would’ve most likely remained unknown. Although there would’ve been countless clues along the way this woman destroyed more than sheaves of corn in her time. As well as experiencing the sensation of having a considerable amount of warm human, as well as animal, blood running over her fingers on occasion.

His family moved a little further west before Joel reached his first teenage year. The reasons responsible for their change in surroundings were never made clear to him. Soon after, Joel’s mother’s personality changed dramatically. She took to spending more and more of her days shut away in solitude, pouring over the already well-worn family Bible - seeking an answer to their problems. His father was far more of a hard-bitten realist. While he believed in the good book as much as the next man he also understood it alone wouldn’t be enough to resolve their ever pressing issues of insufficient money and lack of food. It was the way of their life initially – for a few, long, months. Eventually the transformation in his ma’s attitude brought about a knock-on effect on her husband – his pa. It was then the man’s occasional alcohol consumption increased dramatically. At the time Joel couldn’t understand why their life appeared to be falling apart on all possible levels. Now, as an adult, he could better appreciate his father’s feelings of increasing isolation from his own wife was likely responsible. All the while it was Joel who was working from sunrise to sunset, and frequently beyond in the falling darkness. Within the youngster was a fervent wish to cover for his father’s prolonged absences from any form of productive labour, while the man dealt with life’s troubles solely from the business end of a bottle.

While riding home in the family’s rickety wagon a little before sunset one afternoon, what should’ve been a ninety minute trip to pick up a few supplies had already taken well over seven hours, Joel’s pa had seemingly fallen from the wooden bench seat. The freak accident hadn’t ended there. The rear wheel of the wagon proceeded to roll over his father’s chest – crushing everything within. The driverless wagon eventually pulling up outside their isolated cabin was the first indication of something seriously amiss.

After the following afternoons burial, in a grave dug solely by Joel on the edge of a small copse of trees, Joel’s ma never again mentioned her husband - neither in name or deed. It was as if he’d never played any part in their lives. Whether or not thoughts of him entered into her mind on occasion she kept to herself, her son didn’t know. The Bible reading though continued unabated.

One afternoon a few months later, Joel was some distance from the main building looking after the few cows they owned, when a group of mounted native warriors appeared as if from nowhere. Within minutes they’d brutally slaughtered his mother and either taken, or destroyed so as no longer to be of any use, the entire contents of their humble cabin. By the time Joel made it across to the scene the bucks responsible were long gone – which was probably a blessing. Even with the biggest heart in the world there was nothing one of such tender years, and unarmed to boot, could do against a group of seasoned fighters. It would have been futile in the extreme. The destruction they’d brought along with their brightly painted steeds was plain to see. To avoid gazing at the wanton damage meant the closing of eyes, as the evidence lay all around. His mother was lying on her back – her clothes dishevelled, as if disturbed while dressing in the first light of morning. Her skirt and petticoat lifted high up around her chest – and left. Her open Bible was spread haphazardly across her face, appearing to have been dropped rather than deliberately positioned. It was images of a beloved mother no teenage boy should ever get to gaze upon – yet now they were almost the only ones Joel could remember. No matter how desperately he struggled within his own consciousness to dismiss those terrible images, in order to replace them with visions of a much less violent nature.

The young man was already wearing his raven-black hair long, hanging directly down his back and neatly tied between his shoulders. His locks were secured using a strip of red cloth his mother had sown for him some years before, from a little material she’d found lying at the bottom of her sewing box. It was a look inherited from his Hispanic mother and his mixed race (on more than one occasion his mother mentioned the word ‘Comanche’) father. The youngster’s fondness and aptitude for handling anything with a blade was no doubt all from his father. It was most likely his ‘uncommon’ physical appearance which contributed to putting him in this dicey situation in the first place. A mixed race man travelling with an Apache squaw was never going to pass by unnoticed – or, indeed, unmolested. If he’d been a white man the group of warriors would’ve killed him immediately and taken his top knot of hair as a trophy. As he possessed a fair smattering of native blood coursing through his veins the Sioux bucks decided between them this would be a far more interesting end for him. Given the most unlikely of outcomes, and he survived this experience, Joel was resolved to the fact the way he appeared to others would continue to cause him problems. There wasn’t a great deal he could do about it. To change would be to do so in order to appease another person – and as such it wasn’t a course of action to be even considered. There’d been a fair bit of prejudice, and occasionally open hostility, shown by white folks. Understandably the hatred seemed to gain momentum in the more frontier settlements. The ones where the Indian raids were most prevalent and costly in terms of settler’s lives lost. When the situation was boiled down he was much too Indian for the white population to happily stomach, and too white looking for any Indian tribe to accommodate. He hadn’t asked Inayat the direct question, but he felt it was his outward appearance, his ‘familiarity of look’ as far as she was concerned, which helped her become so ‘at ease’ in his company.

Now though Joel Miller was securely attached, by the rope which encircled his neck, to a large branch of this tree situated alongside the Bozeman Trail. To add insult to injury they’d even used his saddle rope to do the deed. It meant he was well aware if his mount moved off there was no possibility his weight would break the rope before it strangled the last life giving breath from him – before he was dead. He’d made sure he bought the strongest rope available at the time.

As a route to travel the Bozeman was known to be potentially hazardous, certainly when compared to the Oregon Trail, to the health of anyone making the journey. The chief reason for the danger was that the route cut directly across some of the most prized hunting grounds of the Sioux, the Crow and the northern Cheyenne. None of these tribes were considered to be even remotely hospitable to outsiders or uninvited guests. Now, virtually every day, there were numerous fully loaded wagons rolling across their tribal lands, cutting north from the Oregon Trail to get to the reportedly gold rich land of the Dakotas. Having long despaired of the white man’s many broken promises the native population were now in a particularly savage mood. Mere words, peaceful or otherwise, were no longer considered a viable option.

Well, well Tom. Do you see what I see? the deep voice boomed – cutting the peaceful silence like an unexpected clap of thunder.

Yes – I see it. Not what I expected to be setting eyes on this morning when I awoke.

The men’s words permanently fractured the quiet stillness, and caused Joel to stir. He shook his head slightly and attempted to see the men who owned the voices.

I hope they’re not the sort of white men who’d be happy to finish what those damn bucks began.

Neither of the men was yet in his field of vision. They were somewhere behind him, but turning his head as far as it could go was not the best idea given his present predicament. Slowly they came into sight. First there were the heads of two horses, followed by their riders. The man with the huge voice was sat on the largest horse Joel decided he’d ever set eyes upon. Even this steed, despite its enormous size and undoubted physical strength, appeared to be uncomfortable with the sheer amount of weight sitting squarely on its back. The man in the saddle was easily the tallest, biggest, human Joel ever set eyes on.

Do you think we should remove the rope from around his neck, Allan?

I reckon so. The man doesn’t look too comfortable with the way things are – and nor would I.

To Joel it was as if the wide open spaces of the Bozeman had been transformed into the deep, wide, canyons of Utah or Arizona Territories. The man’s voice seemed to hang in the air like an echo - for seconds after the words themselves had been heard.

I’ll get down and hold the animal’s head. After all, we don’t want any tragic accidents. You slip the noose over his head, Allan.

Ummmm…..I’m not sure what makes you think I couldn’t do the holding?

Haha…. I assume you are joking with me once again? Do you happen to see anything around here which we could use as an emergency mounting step to allow you to get back onto this poor, long-suffering, mount of yours?

Well, I have an idea for use in such a crisis. If you wanted to help me Tom, you could get down on all fours and I could use your back to mount from. I’m sure I could make it then, stepping up from there.

Joel was surprised to hear what appeared to be the roar of a volcano, or a train moving under a full head of steam, a little ways behind him. Swiftly he decided it was the man mountain, who seemingly answered to the name of Allan, roaring with good natured laughter at his companion’s expense.

My friend, the look on your face. It’s a picture to behold.

Even now I’m never quite sure when you’re funning with me and when you’re serious.

We’ve been friends for enough years. You know the signs which indicate when I’m all out of humour.

Yes, and I’m well aware of what follows on from there. Once seen and never forgotten, I suppose.

Joel’s wrists were duly untied, and he felt the rope being slipped cautiously over his head. Tom, who even now was concentrating on keeping the horse steady, asked the obvious question of a person found in Joel’s ‘delicate’ situation.

And so, my rather fortunate friend, what’s your story?

Fortunate, indeed. Thank the Lord you rode by when you did, and my heartfelt thanks to both of you. To say you’ve saved my life is no exaggeration. Can I tell you about it over a coffee? My throat feels as parched as the sole of my boots.

Sure….. The sound boomed, echoed and rolled across the land – as if created by several large instruments within some unseen orchestra. It occurred to Joel the big man only uttered the word in, what was for him, a normal conversational tone.

That’s some voice, he thought. It certainly is some voice.

An hour later they’d consumed their coffee and Joel had given them an overview of his life to date, together with how he’d made a living over the years. Also included was a mention of his, still absent, female Apache companion and, in particular, what occurred to put him sitting up there on the back of his horse. Joel was presented with more of an opportunity to observe, in greater detail, his two saviours. Physically they were about as different as it was possible for two men to be, in every way apart from their skin colour. As regards attire there was also little in common between them. Allan was dressed in a similar manner to Joel. A brightly coloured shirt, Allan’s a light, almost salmon, pink while Joel’s was a pleasant shade of turquoise. Both the men wore sleeveless vests sown from some form of animal skin. Each one with small pockets stitched on either side of the front, a little above the waist. While they were alike in appearance Allan’s utilized more than twice the amount of animal skin, from a sense of necessity rather than any sense of vanity. The bandana’s and similar traditional looking choice of hat rounded off the men’s comparable appearance.

Tom was certainly one on his own. Joel wondered if the man even considered the possibility, not to mention the good sense, of changing his clothes in favour of something more in keeping with the local terrain. Whichever town they’d originally departed from it was highly unlikely there was not a store where a more suitable line of attire could’ve been purchased. The only occasion he could ever remember seeing a man similarly dressed was walking down the main street in Virginia City. That was on a Sunday morning if his memory played him fair – and he was likely off to a morning service somewhere. In all fairness, in such a place he didn’t warrant as much as a second glance.

Out here though, on the trail, his personal appearance made him stand out - like a chicken with two heads. He looked as out-of-place as, say, Joel himself would sitting in the front row at a Sunday morning service in a small town chapel. The man’s shirt was white, tinged with the hint of a little grey here and there, but there was no mistaking its original colour. Attached to the front were a couple of lacy looking frills, running up each side of the white, mother of pearl, buttons. These gave the appearance of having been crafted from natural white shell, of the sort usually found on a seaside beach having been deposited over time by the constant motion of the tide.

Those pieces of lace would look far more fittin’ stitched around the hem of a woman’s dress, decided Joel.

The incongruous appearance didn’t stop there. There was also a brown jacket with flap covered pockets and matching pants, made from a check patterned cloth which seemed to have more than a passing similarity to wool.

Geez, it’s gotta be damn hot to wear when the sun’s up good’n proper.

Sitting at the top of this was a black bowler hat – at which point it was all Joel could do to stop from openly rocking with laughter.

Each to their own, I guess.

It didn’t take much in the way of perception for Tom to realise he was being scrutinized intently.

Can I ask if there is anything wrong with what you’re seeing? he asked.

Not exactly. Tell me. Does it get a little warm wearing it?

The man nodded, and then smiled hesitatingly. Certainly, it’s been known.

There was one fact which stood head and shoulders above all else. If there was a desire to appear as a ‘grey man’, one who blended effortlessly into his surroundings and wouldn’t be remembered or looked at for a second time, this was most certainly not the way to go about it.

It was Tom who voiced the question him and his friend were both considering.

Anyone using half an eye can see you’re a breed. No offence meant by the way. I make no claim to be well informed with the traditions of the western frontier, but even as a newcomer I imagined it would‘ve been sufficient to award you with more favourable treatment from the local population?

No offence taken. There’s not a great deal of affection between the many Sioux tribes and the Comanche. While Indians pretty much all look the same to most white men a native can tell the difference, tribe from tribe. As soon as they set eyes on me they likely recognised Comanche as the native blood flowing in my veins. In truth I’ve known plenty of open hostility between the two sets of people, even as recent as the last twelve months. In Inayat they would’ve seen a fellow tribe member, but likely not distinguished which tribe and from where. To my knowledge the Apache and Sioux would never have a reason to cross paths. They live with many, many, miles of open land between their respective people.

Tom shook his head.

I wasn’t aware the natives fought between themselves. I assumed they were as one, and all against the white man.

Joel shook his head and grinned.

Not exactly. Yes, occasionally they will pool their resources against what they see as a common enemy – but it’s not so common. It is true some tribes have long term agreements or pacts of assisting certain others. Then the arrangement works both ways and is mutually beneficial to all parties. On the other hand some groups have a history of being in a state of almost perpetual warfare with others. The Cheyenne and the Crow are two such people. Where did you think these warriors learnt their fighting skills?

I didn’t know…….

It’s certainly not from hunting buffalo. You may find this difficult to believe, particularly if you’ve never witnessed the result of an Indian attack, but they’re as savage and merciless when fighting each another. Maybe more so, as there’re certain, long term, bragging rights at stake when it’s a tribal war.

The sun was beginning to descend southwards from the turquoise blue of the sky as the day headed towards the hour of dusk. Allan announced he’d walk across and look after their horses. The three men previously decided to spend the evening where they were, as total darkness was not far off. All three mounts were securely tethered onto a long rope, the same line which a little earlier in the afternoon seemed destined to play a major part in Joel’s potential demise.

Joel nodded after the retreating back of the man mountain.

I tell you, Tom. I don’t think I’ve ever set eyes on a man of his size. The voice – there’s enough volume there for a dozen fully grown men.

The man chuckled.

He’s a fair sized mass, isn’t he? The man’s carrying a heart of pure gold though. He’s the original gentle giant - until he gets upset, of course. Then it’s all change. To be honest, it’s a terrifying scene to behold when it occurs. The good news is it takes a long time, and a great deal of evil persuasion, to get him to such a pitch. Most people give up well before then due to the lack of reaction and move on.

Draining what little coffee was lying in the bottom of his metal cup he continued.

I’ve heard over the years some refer to him as ‘mouthy’ as his speech is of such great volume. Mind you, I’ve yet to see anyone take it upon themselves to utter those words to Allan’s face. Tom shook his head from side to side, as if picturing the aftermath of such a poorly misjudged comment in his mind. The repercussions from such a foolish action would surely be a sight to behold.

It turned out Joel’s two good Samaritans were actually would-be prospectors. This was going to be their first attempt at digging in the ground to earn a dollar, having both been store keepers prior to this adventure. They’d set out together from Fort Laramie, were en route to Fort Reno and from there on round to Fort C F Smith. Upon arrival they hoped to gather a little local knowledge, which likely meant picking up on the latest rumours, as to where the most favourable areas were for discovering new reserves of gold.

I hope you don’t mind me sayin’ but you seem to be travelling a little light for a two man outfit.

Tom explained how they were planning to purchase the tools necessary for their prospecting when they were closer to their final destination.

We decided it would save a lot of carrying.

There was an undeniable core of sound logic about the idea which Joel found difficult to argue with. It might’ve saved you a quantity of hard coin if you’d decided to carry with you whatever you need. Any tools are likely to be around double the asking price when you get even close to your destination. Those basic laws of supply and demand apply even in the middle of nowhere, believe me.

Yeah - we considered it, and for the reasons you mentioned. As it is we’re carrying only the basics necessary for the journey. Meat, bread, sugar, coffee, a little salt and a blanket each.

Lucky for you winter’s not upon us yet, commented Joel, careful to keep any hint of reprimand or mockery out of his voice. Then you might find a single cover at night is nowhere near sufficient.

Fortunate indeed, Tom agreed, duly nodding his head. We’re going north hunting for our fortunes. In which direction are you headed?

The long haired man with the red ribbon pointed his figure into the increasing gloom surrounding their little camp.

Out there – somewhere. Those infernal Sioux bucks have a couple of firearms which belong to me. In truth I can replace both at a cost of fifty dollars or so, but the tomahawks they also relieved me of I‘m damn well attached to. Taking those was their biggest mistake - after making the decision to interfere with me in the first place, Joel kicked away a stone using the heel of his boot.It’s an act which will likely cost them their lives.

Tom gave Joel a sudden sideways glance.

Most men would let them go, Mister. Be only too pleased they still have their hair and their life.

I hear you but I’m not most men, Tom. It could be the Comanche part of my character making itself known. An Indian doesn’t easily dismiss, or forget, a wrong doing or a personal insult. Originally getting my hands on one of those two axes almost cost me my life. I likely value it more than anything I own.

More’n the Indian woman?

Ha…..I don’t own her. We’re simply together. Joel glanced around their camp. Sometimes – as you can see it’s usually when it suits her.

So how was it the two of you met?

Joel recounted a tale he’d probably only ever told one other person. How he’d discovered Inayat in the deserted ruins of an old coaching station in northern New Mexico Territory, battered, bruised and bloodied but still defiant. While he’d never asked what run of ill fortune culminated with her being left there she’d similarly never volunteered the details. As it was it remained a question with no answers.

What I do know is my life would’ve been a whole lot poorer if Inayat hadn’t been a large part of it. Not only does she look real easy on the eye but she’s more of a warrior than pretty much any man I’ve met.

Whilst I have a measure of faith in your judgement, Joel, I fail to see how such a statement can be in any way true.

No? Have you ever heard of the Apache word ‘dikohe’?

Unsurprisingly the one time storekeeper wasn’t aware of the word – and certainly not its meaning. After having it explained to him by Joel he could only sit open mouthed. It was while still in this pose Allan found him upon his return.

Hey, Joel. What’s gotten into my little friend? I’ve never known him so quiet for so long.

I gave him a little insight into the ways of the Apache. It seems he was of the mind it was only the bucks who could be considered warriors - and therefore as a potential danger to life.

The speed with which the big man looked around showed he was likely of the same mind. You mean it’s not?

Certain elements of the conversation between Joel and Tom were repeated once more. Soon it was Allan who was similarly sitting quietly, mouth gaping wide.

Oh boy. These two eastern gentlemen have a few shocks and surprises coming their way, mused Joel, assuming they stay alive long enough to learn.

It was a comment which made Joel smile to himself. After all wasn’t it them whom he needed to thank for saving his life?

All three men were up at sunrise, and making their preparations to move on.

While Tom and Joel took care of the first mug of hot coffee of the new day, and found a little food, Allan looked out to the welfare of the steeds.

All was conducted in an atmosphere of almost total, stony, silence. After a while it all became too much for Joel.

So what’s gone on I’ve not been party to, Tom? Something’s changed since last night – but I sure as hell don’t know what. Is it to do with my being here?

The expression on the man’s face spoke volumes.

Sorry, Joel. I’ve been thinking of a way to approach the subject. I find it rather upsetting to even think about it, which doesn’t help.

When the man completed the explanation it was Joel’s turn to sit, open mouthed.

There. How you look now is the way I was when Allan told me of his plans – which was only a few minutes before you stirred.

Part of the previous evenings discussions revolved around how Joel made his living. Did he ever try his hand at digging for a possible fortune in silver or gold?

From what Joel now understood it seemed the explanation he gave regarding the way he made his money succeeding in striking a chord somewhere within Allan. The life of a wagon master - shepherding prospectors, traders and on occasion families, north and south around the Bozeman Trail - appealed to Allan more than a daily routine of breaking his back digging for the elusive precious yellow metal. It seemed Tom had his own suspicions as to the true reason for the change of heart. Given the vast size of Allan’s frame the man was justifiably nervous when it came to the idea of disappearing into a tunnel, which immediately vanished into the side of a hill, in order to start digging.

You can’t be surprised, Tom. Look at him. It would need to be some enormous tunnel to allow him to even squeeze inside its entrance.

I know, Joel, and I appreciate the physical problems which would be incurred. The upshot is he wants to ride along with you as far as Fort Reno. According to my understanding it’s there where you’re due to pick up your next wagons to take on around the Bozeman. At that point I’m free now to ride on, as was our original plan, if I so wish. Only now I’ll be riding on alone.

Hell. You happening by and saving me from an untimely death has turned out costing you dear.

Joel was desperate to help the man’s situation. After all he was more than a little indebted - to both of them. Tom was visibly upset by the sudden change made to their, long established, plan. Joel was similarly correct when he pointed out this latest development could be directly attributed to their willingness to stop and assist him so admirably in his hour of need.

I’ve an idea – one which may be an ideal compromise. How about we all go around the Trail together? At least as far north as Fort C F Smith. When we arrive you can each make your decisions on what comes next.

Tom barely nodded his head, while shrugging his shoulders in a despondent manner. It sounds to me like the best compromise given the unfortunate circumstances.

Good – I believe it’s for the best. Prospecting is not for everyone. For the odd few leaving the land with pockets full of gold there’s several hundred leaving far poorer than when they arrived. Others end up being buried in their own small patch of land. Ironically it’s often the same area of dirt where they once hoped to discover a fortune hidden a few inches below the surface.

Joel shielded his eyes from the low early morning sun and scanned the terrain around them. Seeing nothing of interest, and no movement, he continued. You, and Allan, might’ve both seen enough of the unpleasant underbelly of life by the time we make Fort C F Smith. If we’re unfortunate enough to get a visit from more of those Sioux bucks I’d say it’s a certainty you’ll have a change of heart.

A look of concern appeared on Tom’s face as he turned to face the other man.

It’s that bad?

I won’t lie to you. Yes, it’s like living through the screaming reality of a terrible nightmare. The worst one you ever suffered when you were a kid. Could be you’ll decide on an easier life, and head back southwards again, towards Fort Laramie. No one could blame you. Being witness to an Indian attack can have such an effect on any man – even ones who’ve survived the experience on previous occasions.

When Allan returned from tending to the mounts they opened a similar discussion with him. It transpired it was indeed a deep rooted fear of becoming permanently entombed within the narrow confines of a tunnel which was now making him nervous.

Joel flung the remnants of his coffee into the spluttering flames, stood up and moved a little away from the fire.

Before we head further north there’s one task I have to complete.

Before he could say more Allan looked up.

I guess you’re talking about catching up with those same Sioux bucks?

Yep – you must’ve read my mind. As I mentioned yesterday they left carryin’ a few items belonging to me. They also put me on my horse to die – and almost got their wish.

Tom nodded. I’ve been anticipating this conversation since yesterday. You should take along some supplies for the journey.

I appreciate it. Those damn Sioux bucks carried away every single thing of consequence Inayat and I was hauling with us.

Twenty minutes later and Joel was all packed and ready to ride.

As a parting gift, before riding out, he left Tom and Allan with a few snippets of good advice. In short they needed to keep their eyes and ears open, and their firearms within easy reach, at all times.

Never forget what I said. ‘All times’ means each single minute of every day. Not when you can be bothered to remember. Don’t make the fatal mistake of assuming because you can’t see an Indian he’s not out there somewhere. He’ll most likely be watching you. Many men have become complacent while resting around a warming camp fire out here. In short order they’ve paid the ultimate price for their casual attitude. I know – it damn nearly cost me dear.

The saddle bags of Joel’s steed contained sufficient food for a little over a week, along with firearm ammunition to spare. On one side of his waist hung a long bladed, and wickedly sharp, hunting knife. The other side of his brown animal skin belt supported an 1860 Colt Army revolver, and the leather scabbard on the right of his saddle was fitting snugly around an immaculate looking Henry rifle.

The two men may not have been particularly extravagant with the number of blankets they brought along, decided Joel, but they sure didn’t skimp on their firepower. Allan and Tom generously gave him the choice of whatever weapons they carried. There was no hesitation for him in selecting the Colt Army. It was an identical pistol to the one taken from him by the men he was about to pursue. Consequently he was as familiar with it as the back of his own hand. Of the rifle? Well, he’d heard only good words spoken about the Henry’s accuracy and reliability.

Joel took to his saddle and, pulling on the reins, began to back his horse away from the two men, who briefly raised their hands in farewell.

Give me three days. If I’ve not returned at the end of the third you should break camp the next morning and head in the direction you were originally ridin’ when you happened upon me. Don’t you go forgettin’ my words about staying alert. Make no mistake - both your lives are dependent on your vigilance.

As he moved the steed’s reins to the left, and the horse moved its head in the same direction, Joel paused once more. It’s something I don’t get to say often and maybe I won’t get another opportunity. Again, thank you both for stopping and assisting a stranger in need. You could’ve easily ridden by without a second glance. Good luck to you both.

Joel looked forward over his mount’s ears, mind now focused on the job in hand and instinctively applied his spurs sharply into the flanks of his steed. The animal fairly leapt ahead.

Let’s go and shed some blood.

Chapter 2. On the trail.

Ever since leaving the company of the men to which he owed his life he’d been expecting it to occur. When it did it still came as a surprise.

The Lakota warriors he was eager to meet with didn’t appear to be in any sort of a hurry. Judging by the stride length of their ponies they were only walking them. They’d made no attempt to disguise their trail, probably assuming there would be no threat and therefore little need to do so. The tracks were so easily followed there may as well have been a small cairn of stones arranged by the side of the track every hundred yards or so to provide directions. With this knowledge Joel was certain they would’ve taken the opportunity to halt and rest overnight. As far as they were concerned the half breed they’d left behind sitting on his mount, ready to hang, had only two likely options. A dog’s chance was one, and no chance at all was the second. Not a great outcome either way.

Being temporarily distracted, by thoughts of his previous day’s good fortune, he turned a corner in the trail and heard the snorting sound of another horse.

Geeez……. My damn heart nearly gave out. I wish you’d stop springing those surprises on me. You do it when you leave, and you do it again when you re-appear.

Hello my Joel. It is also good to see you again.

Ummmm. Hello Inayat. I knew you’d turn up in this sort of fashion.

It’s fortunate for you it was me. It could’ve been those Sioux bucks you’re trailing.

What makes you think it’s where I’m headed?

Ha…. Now who’s playing the joker? How long have we ridden together and shared a bedroll? I know what you’re thinking – often before you.

Joel manoeuvred his horse around hers.

Humph…. So you say.

The Apache woman smiled. Believe the word - I know how it is. As to the men you’re seeking? A mile ahead you’ll see a dead tree, a little to the left of the trail. Two hundred yards west you’ll find where they camped last night. They moved off an hour ago – five warriors - showing no great urgency.

Was it only five? It seemed more.

Reining his horse back Joel came to a halt.

You truly are a diamond. I must’ve done something right in the eyes of the Lord for our paths to have crossed.

Inayat smiled – and Joel’s heart immediately melted.

Oh my – this woman sure is a joy to be around.

I assume you mean Ussen, the giver of life, when you refer to your Lord.

Yeah…… You know they’re one and the same. Different words, used in different worlds – but meaning the same.

The Chiricahua woman chuckled softly.

Damn…..she’s worth a lot more to my heart than even a dozen Cherokee tomahawks.

You’re carrying weapons of war other than your own. Do they belong to the men who happened by and cut you free?

Joel filled in the missing pieces of information his companion wasn’t aware of. Or so he assumed.

"I already know most of what you’ve mentioned. I was hiding in the bushes not a stone’s throw from your horse, watching the big man cut the tie on your wrists and pull the rope over your head. Not sure