Billy Two Feathers - Incident At La Mesilla

By wolfgang black

                                                                                     Billy is a dangerous man
                                                                                   He scares me speechless
                                                                          I desperately want to be his woman

 

  Billy Two Feathers - This year's Winner - 2023 Global Book Award Bronze Medal and Readers Favorite Five Star review

                                                           Rated Mature Adult, see content advisory.

This compelling adventure novel follows Billy Two Feathers, a mixed-race bounty hunter on a mission in the Wild West. It's 1875, and life is tough in the badlands. Travel is slow, communication is complex, and law enforcement is often nonexistent. Amid this unsettled environment, a young man of mixed parentage is making his way in the white man's world as a bounty hunter. Half-Anglo and half-Crow Indian, Billy Two Feathers uses his skills as a gunfighter to bring the bad guys to justice. Raised in a reservation orphanage, he is a man with few prospects. But Billy is determined to use his skills as a gunfighter to accumulate enough reward money to buy a ranch and have a family, creating the home he never had.

Just when things seem to be going well, evil throws a dark blanket over his future. Heinous villains and malevolent forces cross his path, driving him into a vengeful rage. With his dream in tatters, can Billy be rescued from his fury and find peace of mind?

 

Although this Five Star Readers' Favorite© novel is a Western adventure, it is not typical of the genre's writing style. This narrative's unique format will enthrall any reader interested in deep personal relationships with an uncertain outcome. At its core, this is a complex love story.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wolfgang Black
• Release date: Aug 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223858560

Book preview

cover-image, Billy Two Feathers Ver 2.0 11-18-23

Title Page

Billy Two Feathers

INCIDENT AT LA MESILLA

Author

 Picture 9

wolfgang black

Content Advisory: This book is intended for Mature Audiences. It contains racially and sexually controversial slang and terminology commonly used in the nineteenth century. The novel also has mild sexual imagery.

Version 2.0 – 11 18 23

✲✲✲

A fictional account of a twenty-year-old half-Anglo, half-Crow Native American cowboy during the taming of the west.

This is his story.

Copyright Page

Copyright © 2023 by Trebor Nottus Publishing for wolfgang black. All Rights Reserved.

The characters portrayed in this book are fictitious except for historically notable persons of the period, such as Wyatt Earp, Wild Bill Hickok, and political figures. All events and actions are fictional. Any similarities to actual events or actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the publisher's or author's written permission.

The Cover is based on original artwork from - Wallpaper by voova.o from Wallpapers.com

Forward

This book uses terminology and slang consistent with the period and culture it portrays (mid-19th century). Some readers may be offended by the language or social constructs from this earlier period. However, the purpose of using these terms is not to be offensive but historically accurate in placing these characters in a realistic environment for their time. Not only are these terms necessary for authenticity, but the responses of the characters in this story to the disparaging language and societal biases are a vital part of the narrative.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

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Flight of the Ukraine Sparrow

Introduction – The Starting Point – 1870's

There were various local and state laws governing the sale of alcohol to Native Americans starting as early as the 18th century. However, it wasn't until 1802 that Congress enacted laws governing the sale of alcohol to Native Americans. In 1832, the US Congress created the Office of Commissioner of Indian Affairs in part to restrict the sale of alcohol on reservation lands. The Federal alcohol prohibition for Native Americans ended in 1953 but required reservations to follow State alcohol regulations. Even today, some alcohol sale prohibitions exist on reservations in various forms.

Prior to 1967, marriage between different races in the US was prohibited by law in some states. Not only was marriage prohibited, but sexual relationships between races were also banned. In 1967, the Supreme Court unanimously ruled that state laws prohibiting interracial relationships were unconstitutional.

Prologue

This is the story of a young warrior named Two Feathers. Known as Billy at the orphanage where he was raised, he earns his tribal name through his deeds. At a young age, he traps many rabbits, which allows him to trade pelts for a Bowie knife. Then, during puberty, he uses this Bowie knife to kill two deer (a doe and a yearling buck) for the annual Corn Festival. In preparation for his warrior induction, Billy fashions a headdress using two crow feathers. Crow feathers because his father was of the Crow tribe, and one feather for each deer he had killed. Given a choice between the two warrior names Deer Hunter or Two Feathers, Billy chooses Two Feathers. This story starts when Billy Two Feathers is twenty years old.

Chapter 1

✲ Small Town Somewhere In West Texas – 1875

THERE IS A GLINT in the corner of the lawman's eye as his hand settles easily onto the top of his long barrel Colt 45 Peacemaker. The pistol is strapped low onto his left hip, boasting of the Sheriff's comfort with this weapon. From the sun's angle, I guess it is about four in the afternoon. I faintly hear the squeak of the leather holster as the Sheriff uses his little finger to gently loosen the 45 from the holster's grip. Although he hasn't yet grasped the gun handle, I know he will beat me to the draw by at least a half-second if I attempt to draw my short-barrel Colt.

I'm thinking hard. There is no hint of apprehension in the Sheriff's eye; he has done this before. Unlike Mr. Hickok or Wyatt Earp, this Sheriff has no reputation as a lawman. But he appears pretty comfortable with Mr. Colt's equalizer, exuding cold-blooded confidence in the outcome.

It's not a life or death situation; my gift isn't giving me that prickly feeling on the back of my neck. This is mainly an issue of enforcing a rule. The Sheriff may beat me to the draw, but he likely will not. I am the younger man, quicker to lock onto my target, and never miss my mark. If I allow things to continue, this Sheriff will surely die, causing a big to-do over nothing. And there is a slim possibility I could lose the contest. Cautioned by my schoolmarm-mother's quote, Discretion is the better part of valor, I raise both hands in surrender mode and say, Okay, Sheriff. I'll move on. A shot of whiskey isn't worth getting killed over.

The Sheriff's hand moves away from his firearm as he secures his weapon with the leather hammer thong. He says, That's a good'id, boy. Yuh know it be illegal to sell whisky to Injuns, an' dat includes half-breeds. Yuh speak highfalutin’ fer a half-breed cowboy. Yuh go to school or sumpin’?

I grew up on several Indian reservations in the western territories, sir. I'm hoping that a respectful tone will further de-escalate the situation.

Relaxing my shoulders, I continue. I was a foundling in an Indian orphanage, and the reservation schoolmarm took me under her wing. So I learned reading and writing at reservation schools. She moved around a bit and took me along. When I was thirteen, we moved to the provisional Jicarilla Apache Reservation in New Mexico Territory. That's where I learned the Apache techniques of living off the land and horse handling.

The Sheriff says, Damn son, life givn yuh a hard row to hoe. Orphan an' haf-breed. I bet yuh doan even know yur daddy. Tell yuh what boy, if'n yuh stay out'n the saloon, yuh can come thru town. If'n yuh need supplies or sumpin like that, I'll escort yuh, and yuh won't be bothered.

Sheriff, anywhere I can get my horse Cochise a cool bucket of water? Looks like today will be another scorcher.

He chuckles, Whooee, dis whole week's ben 'hot as a whorehouse on nickel night'!

Noticing the red lantern in the saloon’s upstairs window, I respond. Speaking of that, would my escort through town include a trip to the whorehouse?

This gets me a hearty laugh as he answers, "Well, son, Injuns consort’n wid white women also be illegal. And duh whores be white women. But, since consort’n be a whore's bidness, an it ain’t again duh law fer an Injun doin bidness with a white woman; dat be a loophole in duh law.

But duh whorehouse be upstairs in duh saloon. Caint take a chance on duh whores sneakin yuh a whiskey. Yuh no how fired up yer injun blood'll get on liquer. But yuh cain get yer horse cool water at duh livery stable.

This lawman is more clever than I had imagined. Looks like I’m not getting any booze. I respond, Suppose I can't have everything, Sheriff. I'd be much obliged if you would escort me to the stable then. After some cool water, I'll get Cochise a bucket of oats and brush him down. And could I also make a trip to the dry goods store for some supplies?

Waving me toward the town, he says, Come along, son an' follar me. I'll escort yuh tuh de stables. Yuh'll be okay fer duh walk 'cross the street to duh dry goods store. I know yur not from rounn here. What's yer name an where yuh headin’ boy?

"White folks call me Billy, sir. The Indians call me Naki Atʼaʼ, which means Two Feathers in English. I'm heading to the Rebecca Rose ranch, sir. Sheriff, have you ever heard of the place? It should be about an hour’s ride from town. The owner contacted me by Western Union telegram requesting help with rustlers."

Nodding his head, he answers, Yep, son, I've heard of it. Duh owner, Mr. Davis, asked me fer hep but that be outsid'n my jursdction. He said duh U.S. Marshal ben try'n to hep but ain't caught nobody yet. An', Billy, sorry bout duh drawdown earlier. Peers yer on the right side of duh law, boy, but Injuns drinkin’ liquer be’s agin Federal Law.

Grabbing his horse's bridle, the lawman turns his stallion, allowing me to pass. I say, I understand, Sheriff. Sometimes I can sneak by before anyone notices I'm a half-breed. But you've got a sharp eye.

Looking me in the eye, he responds, Yep, son, yuh cud pass fer white if'n yuh took dem feathers out'n yer hat. Dats what cause me to taken a seckent look. Dats when I took notice of yer hair. Too black'n strait fer a white boy.

Leading his horse, the Sheriff walks toward the other end of town. Taking Cochise’s reins, I walk alongside him down the short street, glancing at the buildings on either side of the dirt path.

Reaching the livery stable, the Sheriff gives me a salute, mounts his horse, and heads back to resume his vigil of warding off an Injun attack. I'm glad our chance meeting worked out like this. Shooting a lawman is serious business and can get your face on a wanted poster.

After caring for Cochise at the livery and restocking my travel supplies, I walk to the Sheriff's office to review the wanted posters. It's kinda like what city women call window shopping. You never know when you'll run into one of these fellows, and the reward money can be an awfully nice payday.

I leave town to look for the ranch without the half-pint of whiskey I wanted. But on the bright side, I don't have any bullet holes either. About an hour later, I pause and look around as there's nothing visible from the trail. Then I hear cattle lowing off to my right. The sound is faint, but the wind is blowing toward the herd, which could account for the weak sound and why I don't pick up the cattle's scent.

Turning Cochise, we head toward the noise. About fifteen minutes later, I can see the cattle herd. In the distance, a column of rising smoke indicates it is coming from a chimney. Probably the ranch house.

Riding toward the smoke, about a half-hour later, I come to a bright white clapboard house. It's a homey-looking place with yellow curtains in the windows. There's a small barn and a fenced garden area nearby. Behind the house, I see a few fruit trees. This is a nice-looking spread. I hope to have one like this someday—if I can save the money and if I find a decent woman who will have me. Two big ifs, which means it's not likely to happen.

One of the curtains is pulled slightly open at the bottom, and a small face peers out. Not wanting to get shot, I loudly shout, I'm Billy Two Feathers here to see Mr. Davis.

I hear a front screen door squeak as it opens. A man about my size looks around the corner of the porch. He is holding a Model ‘73 Winchester carbine long barrel, similar to my shorter 20-inch saddle rifle. He says, Howdy. What do I call you? Billy or Mr. Two Feathers?

I laugh, saying, I run into this a lot. That's one of the problems of using an Indian warrior name for a surname. You can call me Billy or Two Feathers; there's no need for the Mister title.

Welcome, Billy. Ride around to the front of the porch and tie your mustang to the railing. There is a water trough there for the horse. I'll step inside and pour you a glass of cool water from the kitchen's ice box.

A few moments later, Mr. Davis returns with my water and his family in tow. The wife and children are all blond. The oldest is a daughter, about fourteen, followed by a brother, about ten or eleven, and two younger sons. The fourteen-year-old daughter is the one that concerns me the most. I've heard of similar complications; now is the time to address the problem. I can't express my real concern without criticizing his fellow local citizens, so I use a more suitable one. I ask, Mr. Davis, do any of your children ride?

Handing me the glass of water, he answers, Yeah, Billy, my two oldest can handle a horse. Why do you ask?

"Mr. Davis, when we discussed your problem, I estimated two to three rustlers are raiding your herd once per week. That's what my fee is based on. That means I'll probably devote about two weeks to your total job. This includes my travel time to and from your ranch.

"Riding in, I passed your cattle and did some initial reconnoitering of the surrounding terrain. I think I've figured out how they are raiding your herd. I need to start today, and can't afford a misstep here. Handling the rustlers alone is easy as long as I'm in control of interrupting their cattle-picking process. I'll have them on the ground, hog-tied, and gagged before they realize they are even being watched. Doing this process as quietly as possible is the key to my success. The total fee quoted was based on the assumption that I have a free hand and that there are no disturbances to tip off the rustlers.

"The problem here is that, in the eyes of a young person, this is an exciting event happening on their ranch. The temptation to sneak out for a peek at these fireworks can be hard to resist. If that happens, my undercover efforts could be blown, and these rustlers won't return until I am long gone.

Our contract requires one-third of your fee to be paid upfront. And your wire transfer has been deposited in my bank. I do this to cover my transportation costs. As stated in my contract, I guarantee I'll catch these hombres or the remaining fee will be waived. But that assumes no interference in my plan. The problem is that your two oldest must remain home while I work. The only way I can be assured this will happen is to take your horses with me while I’m here. If you need them for a supply wagon run to town, tell me which day that will be, and I'll bring them back for that period.

Mr. Davis is thoughtful for several moments. Then nodding his head, he responds. I didn't anticipate this, but I can see your point. And you have to get these rustlers, or they will bankrupt us. So if that is what you need, do what you must. And the wife and kids travel to town on Wednesdays. Is there anything else you need?

No, Mr. Davis, that should do it. He acknowledges my answer as I turn toward his barn to gather his horses. I dislike not being totally honest, but sometimes it's necessary. My stated concern is real, but there is actually an even more disastrous outcome that I'm trying to avoid. If that young blond girl sneaks out to see what's happening and the rustlers get her, this will get really ugly. I've captured many of these bad guys; some are truly evil. A lot of them have rewards posted due to past criminal behavior, including murder. If that happens and that pretty fourteen-year-old blond white girl is found raped and murdered, and I'm the only Injun around, guess who everyone will blame. Conventional wisdom being that we Injuns like white girls, I won't stand a chance. And I don't want to be found swinging at the end of a rope hanging from a tree in West Texas.

✲✲✲

✲ Rounding Up The Bad Hombres

One of my secret weapons in dealing with rustlers is Cochise, my six-year-old cow pony. He is named after a Chiricahua Apache chief who fought many successful battles against the US Cavalry, eventually gaining a reservation in Arizona for his people. The chief died last year from cancer. Like his namesake, my Cochise is fearless and doggedly persistent.

My unusual horse has another trait: he is comfortable around cows. Occasionally, when moving north or south between major cities, we use the train for transit. On these occasions, I settle in the relative comfort of the passenger carriage. At the same time, my horse gets stuck in the cattle boxcar. While he patiently tolerates this disparity in our accommodations, I sense he doesn't much care for it. After arriving at our destination, Cochise is usually a bit cranky for several days. I suspect he thinks I'm trying to save a few bucks on his fare.

Since I have the use of Mr. Davis's two stock horses, I select one of them for my travel use. Because of Cochise's comfort around cattle, I put him and the other horse in with the cows. I set up my camp where I can watch the herd but will not be easily seen.

Although I'm a bit tired from traveling all day to get to the Rebecca Rose ranch, I must stay awake all night to watch for rustlers showing up. Since this kind of cattle theft typically occurs at night, I can catch up on my sleep tomorrow during the daylight hours. The night is quiet except for a few coyotes looking for a wandering calf. I keep watch over the herd until dawn. Then as the sun rises in the east, I have a quick breakfast and settle in for a long nap.

The next night is when the bad hombres show up. I am dressed in a black shirt and custom black leather shotgun chaps. The chaps protect my legs from the cow horns and hide my light tan Levi pants. With my black hat, I'm almost invisible in the dark. I know something is afoot when Cochise begins nickering. I'm crouched below the backs of the cattle and quickly scan the area. I see two fellas leading their horses by the reins while slowly passing through the herd. They are looking for calves not yet branded with the intent to rope and lead them away. The moon is around three-quarters full, and the hombres' movements are easy to follow. It doesn't take long before the first fella's calf has a lasso around its neck, with the rope's other end tied to his horse's saddle horn. Turning around, the bad guy quietly leads his horse and the captured calf away from the herd. The calf's mother follows behind. The rustler moves slowly, using his horse's reins to guide his prize. The purpose is not to spook the animals into a stampede. This would be bad news for all humans in this mix, including me. At the same time, I stay hidden and carefully thread through the herd toward him, following his horse's head while walking in the mama cow’s wake.

Once I'm directly behind the cowboy, time is of the essence. He must not spot me and raise the alarm. I elbow his horse's withers, causing the animal to jerk its head up while I step forward. The cowboy turns his head and shoulders to his right, looking at his horse. This gives me a ninety-degree attack angle for the nape of the man’s neck. And that's when I hammer blow the area with a hard, closed fist. He drops instantly like a marionette with its strings cut. It works every time.

I discovered this hammer fist technique three years ago when a young kid bit me, and I reflexively dropped the youngster with this same movement. It has made my captures much quieter. Over time I have steadily refined the move.

Since the first catch happened quietly, the second rustler is still unaware of my presence. In the meantime, he's found a calf and started his own parade, leading his horse followed by the calf and mama cow. After performing the same technique on the other cowboy, they are both still alive but out cold. Sometimes, this blow will kill a man. However, rustlers are usually hanged anyway, so their death would cause almost no difficulty for me.

With the rustler's hands secured behind them, I gather up my entourage. Riding Cochise, I lead the two cowboys' horses with the bad fellas seated in their saddles. The two calves with mama cows are still trailing behind the cowboy's horses. I've tied Mr. Davis's two stock horses' reins to Cochise's saddle horn. The two additional stock horses have made this a larger and more complicated procession than our traditional capture. Sensing this increase in stature, Cochise is in prime form, leading his parade. He is prancing like a circus horse performing for an audience. This part always amuses me; he is such a show-off.

Arriving at the ranch house in about twenty minutes, I bang on the door to wake the household. A couple of hours later, Mr. Davis's stock horses are hitched to his wagon, with the bad hombres secured in the back. Mr. Davis and I head toward town with the rustlers' horses following behind the wagon. I'm riding Cochise leading the evidence, the calves with mama cows following. We should arrive by daylight. If I remember correctly, one of my hombres has a hundred-dollar reward. Plus, I will get the cash from selling the two bad fella's saddles and horses. Counting Mr. Davis's fee, this has been a good week's work for Cochise and me.

Chapter 2

✲ Billy Checks On Mama

IT IS APPROACHING THE END of Spring when ranchers will begin driving cattle to market, so my business is slowing down. I need to see my mother and let her know I'm still alive. Despite being an ornery cuss, I know she's missed me. Besides, I'm interested to see what happened to the Wild Thing I left with Mama in New Mexico three years ago.

From the Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA), I learned that my mother is now assigned to the White Mountain reservation at Camp Apache in the Arizona Territory. That's quite a ways from here, but Cochise and I are used to traveling long distances. Setting out from our last customer's ranch, we head out for the one-hundred-mile trip to El Paso, which will be our first encounter with city life in quite a while. During this one-week trip, I have time to reflect on my three-year absence from the reservation.

My leaving New Mexico was pretty much a result of my career choice. By the time I was seventeen, I had begun picking up jobs as a gunhand due to my talent with firearms. I had also captured four wanted fugitives and earned a goodly sum in rewards. When it was time for me to find a line of work, it seemed natural to look for jobs using my gun skills. Since there wasn't much demand for a gunfighter on the reservation, I was destined to leave home. Rumors indicated that Texas was brimming with bad hombres, so I knew that's where I needed to be.

✲✲✲

✲ Three Years Ago – Billy Heads South

The morning I left home, I said, Mama, I'll see you in a few years. I want to find out if I can make a living bounty hunting or working cattle in Texas.

Tearfully she replied, Billy, I always knew you would leave home someday. I just didn't think it would be this soon. Please write to me from time to time. I promised to do that, but I had nothing to write with, so it probably wouldn't happen.

Cochise and I departed the reservation in New Mexico, heading south following existing Indian trails. Later that day, we put up for the night near the Tohatchi trading post. I chose a campsite near a small stream so Cochise could get a good drink and splash around in the narrow waterway. Unlike many other horses, he loves the water as long as it isn't above his knees. On the stream banks, there was also a goodly supply of fresh grasses where he could forage.

My campsite itself was very simple and consisted of Cochise's saddle, saddle bags, and the horse's saddle blankets. Those blankets would be my bedding, and I should be able to get a good night's sleep using the saddle to rest my head.

Cochise wandered up as it was getting dark, letting me know he had finished exploring for the day and had eaten all the grass he could hold. As his daily reward, I gave him a handful of oats. I never tie Cochise up at night, as I don't want him tethered if an emergency arises. If a wolf or puma comes for us, I want Cochise to be able to defend himself. Having a gun, I'm not as concerned about myself. I don't worry about Cochise wandering off. We're buddies, and besides, I have his oat supply. He would never abandon his oats.

I built a small fire to provide warmth and to cook my evening meal. While I prepared my food, I sat on my saddle with my brass lever action Winchester Model '66 next to me. I always like to have my long gun within easy reach. You never know what will be attracted to the warmth of the fire and the smell of cooking food. I once had a bear take a hankering to some cooking beef. Mama and I had bear steaks for days afterward.

Vittles were simple that evening, as they usually are on the trail. I had brought with me a Mason jar of dried beans soaking in water. I removed the jar from my saddlebags and poured off the extra liquid. The beans looked softened enough to eat, so I mushed them into a coarse paste using a wooden peg while they were still in the container. With the bean paste ready, I set it aside and cooked a piece of salt pork to my liking. Once the pork was done, I pushed the meat to one side and tilted the small frying pan, pouring off part of the liquid pork grease. Then I dumped the mushed-up beans beside the pork. While the beans were cooking, I blended some dry cornmeal mix with canteen water in the Mason jar. Once the cooking beans had firmed up, I turned them over using my Bowie knife and put the pork on top, leaving a part of the pan empty. I used the empty space to fry the cornmeal mixture. My mouth began to water as a gentle breeze wafted this delicious mixture of scents toward me.

I removed the pan from the heat and placed it on a flat rock near the fire. This would allow it to cool a bit before eating but keep the food warm. It was quite dark by now, and the only light was from the small fire.

As I waited for the food to cool, from the corner of my eye, I noticed my Winchester rifle slowly sliding behind me. Instinctively turning to look, I saw a small hand on the rifle barrel pulling it away. With my left hand, I grabbed the small arm above the Winchester, capturing the intruder. Following a blood-curdling scream, a small boy bit down on my forearm. Curling my right hand into a fist, I hit the boy on the back of his neck, just below his head. He immediately collapsed. My initial thought was I had killed him. Too bad, but he shouldn't have tried to steal my rifle.

The wind was blowing gently over the fire toward me, meaning the boy had approached me from downwind. Now that the boy was closer, his foul smell was overwhelming. This kid smelled like a polecat. It was hard to believe that something this small could generate so much stink.

I noticed that he was still breathing. Reaching over to my saddle bags, I removed a piggin' string I use when working cattle. I wanted to secure this boy before he revived. Pulling his right arm across his back, I pulled his left foot next to his wrist, and figure eight tied them together. Now, this kid couldn’t run off to attack me later. This also created a handle that I used to lift the boy and move him off a bit, but still in the firelight where I could keep an eye on him. Now he was far away enough that the smell wouldn't spoil my appetite.

I returned to the fireside and sat down on my saddle. Then I looked at the bite on my arm. It was bleeding at a fair rate, which I encouraged by squeezing the wound. This would help flush out any infectious agents, as there was no telling what diseases were in that kid's mouth. Once satisfied, I rinsed the bite with a bit of canteen water, followed by just a splash of whiskey from the bottle in my saddle bag. Then I tied the wound with a clean bandana.

By now, my stomach started to growl; time to eat. Using my Bowie knife, I sectioned the salt pork, beans, and cornbread in half, then into eating portions. Using a fork, I consumed those sections, intent on saving the balance for breakfast the following day.

Washing down my meal with water from the canteen, I was pretty much ready for the night. Then I heard the kid moan. Standing, I walked over and picked up the boy by his makeshift arm and leg handle. Realizing that he might be cold, I carried him closer to the fire. He wore pants and a flannel shirt, two sizes too small and dirty beyond description. His hair was matted and twisted into a mass that looked like a black helmet.

When he came to, his eyes opened, looking directly at me. He started screaming and thrashing about. I couldn't understand what he was saying, but I occasionally caught an Apache word or two. Sounded like I'd captured myself a little Injun boy. In a loud voice, I shouted in broken Apache, "Quiet, ndí Dilzhę́ʼé goolízhi." (Quiet, you Apache skunk.) This infuriated him further.

Cogitating about what to do next, I decided the first step was to calm him down and get rid of the stink. I grabbed him by his arm and leg handle and carried the boy to the stream. While I stood on a rock, I repeatedly dunked him in the water, and eventually, he got the message and calmed down. I then carried the boy to the fire and sat him next to my saddle. Due to his arm and leg being out of their usual place, his seat was awkward, but he wasn't going to run off.

During his transport, I noted how light the boy was. He was basically skin and bones. Although tall, he couldn't be over ten or eleven years old based on his weight. Using sign language, I asked if he wanted to eat. He quickly nodded his head. With my Bowie knife, I cut him bite-sized portions of what would have been my breakfast. Slowly, I started feeding him using my fork. He was obviously starving and tried to wolf down the food. So I waited between mouthfuls, giving him sips of water to keep him from choking.

After eating, I removed the piggin' string and walked the boy over to where my horse was sleeping. Cochise is not like most horses. He goes to sleep lying down on his legs. After resting for a while, he will get up and graze or drink. I don't know what his whole nightly routine is, but it must work because he is one well-rested and refreshed animal when he wakes up. I sat the boy down, facing my horse. Then, looping a rope around the small tree the horse was sleeping under, I tied his hands behind his back. I knew that Cochise would wake me if the boy tried to escape.

I refilled my drinking water canteens with stream water. The runs make a miserable trail companion, so I normally add a half-shot of whiskey to one quart of any stream water I drink. This kills all nasty germs that may be lurking in a waterhole. I call this mixture firewater. (This is what our culture calls whiskey, but mine is watered down.) Before going to sleep, I put some dried pole beans into my rinsed-out Ball Mason jar and covered them with this mixture. This softens the dried beans, so they can