Eagle Valley

By Archie J Roy

Clay Rivers, along with his saddle partner, Gayland, were heading north out of Texas to the far Blue Mountains hoping to find work on a ranch they'd heard needed hands. In New Mexico they were attacked by a renegade band of Apaches. Clay was rescued by a woman who could shoot, ride, and work as well as any cowboy. She was also very beautiful. Cl

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palmetto Publishing
• Release date: Jul 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781638372875

Archie J Roy

Archie Roy has spent thirty-eight years of his life in Colorado. As a teenager he worked for Bill Carlisle, known as the Lone Bandit, the last of the Wyoming outlaws in Laramie, Wyoming, whose stories of the old West have inspired him. Archie works as a foreman for Montano Concrete Corp. He is married, a father, a grandfather, and a great-grandfather. He counts hunting, fishing, listening to music, hiking, and visiting historical sites as his hobbies of choice.

Book preview

Chapter I

T

he Bald Eagle sat on a branch on top of an old dead tree high up on a magnificent valley. Down below was a meadow with knee-high grass and a small stream running down the middle. It was surrounded by mountain hills covered with aspen and pine trees. There was a rocky knoll down below, just above the stream, and the eagle had a perfect view of the area. It had caught a slight movement down below him; a cottontail rabbit moved out from under a bush. The eagle got set; he’d wait just a few minutes till it got a little farther out. It would make a good meal.

Just as he got ready to swoop down, he stopped. He had caught a movement on the opposite side of the mountain. Up to his right, something was moving in the trees. Now an eagle is a curious bird. He takes no chances; his keen eyesight misses nothing within a mile radius. What he saw now was a man stripped to the waist, all bloody. Running all out, dodging through the trees. Then the eagle spotted two more men about one hundred yards behind him. These men carried tomahawks and were also stripped to the waist, but instead of blood, they were covered with war paint. As they were running down the mountain, the eagle spotted another movement, this time to his left. A rider had come out of the trees and was riding across to the top of the knoll. The rider was scanning—or she scanned the ground, riding at an easy pace.

When he reached the top of the knoll, he stopped by a huge boulder. The man running down the mountain broke out into the meadow, and he slipped and fell face first, sliding on the grass. Then he got up on one knee, and wobbly, he got up and started running again. He ran toward the stream, then he started to stumble. Then the two Indians—for that was what they were, two Braves—came charging out, yelling and screeching as they ran. The man turned and started running faster; then he tripped and fell. He started crawling. Then he stopped and rolled over face up. The man had given up. He lay staring at the sky. A few puffy white clouds were moving slowly up in the sky. It’s a good day to die, the man thought. As the Indians came charging up, a shot rang out loud in the clearing. The first Indian fell face first. The one behind stopped, and as he stared up the hill, a second shot rang out, and he flew back as a bullet hit him in the chest. The eagle saw the rider kneeling down, get up and walk back to his horse and put his rifle back in the scabbard. Then he mounted and started down to where the other men were lying on the ground, two of them dead. The eagle looked down where the rabbit had been; it was gone. Startled at the shots, it had run back into its hole. The eagle blinked. Oh well. He’d wait; he had a lot of patience, and he knew the rabbit would have to come out again. The drama that had taken place down below had started three days before.

Chapter II

M

y trouble started when Gayland and I were headed north to the far-off mountains to look for a job on a ranch we’d heard tell of. We were both tired of the plains country, and we wanted fresh country in the mountains we’d heard so much of. Trouble was nobody told us of the Apaches. When we came face to face with a bunch of warriors returning from a hunting trip, we lit out like our pants were on fire. We’d gained on them, but when we were crossing a ravine, the bank gave out from under me, and I went sailing, landing at the bottom, with the wind knocked out of me. In no time they had me tied and bundled like a mad steer.

Gayland—he didn’t hesitate; he was gone like the wind. They gave up chasing him and took me back to their camp. Now, being a prisoner in an Indian camp left you game for all. The kids took to smacking me with branches and throwing rocks at me. The women would poke me with sharp sticks and laugh. I kept taunting the young warriors, calling them women and dog killers, telling them to let me loose and I’d whip all of them. The one who tied me up knew a lot about knots because I couldn’t move my hands. Two of the young warriors who had brought me in were arguing with two older men. One I figured was the chief. They kept pointing at me and making signs as if to say they wanted me for themselves.

Finally the chief held up his hand and gave the old one an order. The older man pulled out his knife and came over to me. I thought for sure I was a dead man, but he cut me loose. Taking me over to the chief, the chief spoke in broken English: You run, you have till you get to that tree… he said, pointing to a Pinon tree at the top of a hill about a quarter mile away. Then them two, he said, pointing to the two young warriors. They catch you, they kill you.

Apparently it was some kind of test for the young warriors. I didn’t care one way or another. I now know I had a chance. Lifted my hand at the chief, and turning, I ran out of there like the fires of hell were after me. I turned and got to the top of the hill. Far off, maybe ten or so miles away, loomed the mountains. I picked a point and started off at a pace I knew I could keep. As a young boy I ran a lot and hunted up in the smoky mountains. I also knew Indians could run, so I had to stay ahead of them. I wondered what had become of Gayland. I wish he’d come to my rescue. After I’d run for about five miles, my legs were starting to cramp, and I knew I needed water. My feet were also starting to blister. The cuts and bruises on my body were stinging with the sweat, and my eyes were getting bleary. By late evening I finally came to a small stream. I went into it and let myself fall in a pool, holding my head under water for a while. Then I drank a little, I knew better than to take too much.

Leaving the stream I walked up a slight knoll. Looking back I could see nothing. I turned and looked at the mountains. I was about halfway there. I knew to set down would only be worse. My cuts started bleeding again. My whole body was in pain. I glanced back, and sure enough, they were back there. I followed the stream a ways, stopping and taking small drinks now and then. My calves and muscles were starting to really hurt now. I got in the stream one last time, and this time, I took a long drink as I was headed away from the stream. I left it and started running again toward the mountains.

I finally reached the foothills. At dark I could look up into the dark timber; it was almost pitch black in there. I was about a mile away from the forest now, but I could hardly see. I kept going. Finally, I ran in under some pine trees and fell down. I could smell the pines. The wind was slowly dying down. I got up, but I knew they were back there. There wouldn’t be a moon tonight, so I had to find a place to hide till morning. The Indians would also find a place to hide till morning. I walked and crawled up the slope of the hill. I finally found a place where there were branches and tall grass around. I found a hollow under an uprooted tree. If I had some iron pyrites, I could make me a small fire. I’d done it dozens of times back home, but all I could do was gather branches to rap around myself and make myself as comfortable as possible. My whole body ached like I was lying on an ant pile. The Indians had cut me pretty bad, not large cuts but a bunch of small ones. Some were still bleeding. I finally closed my eyes, and I must have slept for a time; when I awoke it was cold. I pulled more branches around myself and shivered. As I lay there, I thought of back home, and I could smell my ma’s home cooking. We were poor, but our table always had meat on it. I was the oldest of four brothers and a sister. I’d helped my pa plant and hunt for food since I was knee high to a grasshopper.

I grew up tall, wide