The captain was a madwoman with a scattergun. The soldiers were a whore, a surveyor's assistant, a writer, a crusty old Irishman, two murderous brothers, a criminal, and a county hunter. And the only way out of the mountains was on a frigid river that flowed toward the Missouri--a river running with blood.
Texas-born Cole Anthem was the bounty hunter. He had followed an outlaw right into the middle of a major Indian uprising and a battle that turned into a slaughter. Now Cole and the other survivors of a raging Cheyenne war are taking the only chance they have: riding a woman's keelboat toward safety. But up and down the Rogue, a glory-mad chief hasn't given up. His warriors are armed and waiting--to spill the white men's blood...
The captain was a madwoman with a scattergun. The soldiers were a whore, a surveyor's assistant, a writer, a crusty old Irishman, two murderous brothers, a criminal, and a county hunter. And the only way out of the mountains was on a frigid river that flowed toward the Missouri--a river running with blood.
Texas-born Cole Anthem was the bounty hunter. He had followed an outlaw right into the middle of a major Indian uprising and a battle that turned into a slaughter. Now Cole and the other survivors of a raging Cheyenne war are taking the only chance they have: riding a woman's keelboat toward safety. But up and down the Rogue, a glory-mad chief hasn't given up. His warriors are armed and waiting--to spill the white men's blood...
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Overview
The captain was a madwoman with a scattergun. The soldiers were a whore, a surveyor's assistant, a writer, a crusty old Irishman, two murderous brothers, a criminal, and a county hunter. And the only way out of the mountains was on a frigid river that flowed toward the Missouri--a river running with blood.
Texas-born Cole Anthem was the bounty hunter. He had followed an outlaw right into the middle of a major Indian uprising and a battle that turned into a slaughter. Now Cole and the other survivors of a raging Cheyenne war are taking the only chance they have: riding a woman's keelboat toward safety. But up and down the Rogue, a glory-mad chief hasn't given up. His warriors are armed and waiting--to spill the white men's blood...
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781429978729 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | St. Martin's Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 04/01/2010 |
| Series: | The Texas Anthem Series , #4 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 289 |
| File size: | 199 KB |
About the Author
Kerry Newcomb was born in Milford, Connecticut, but had the good fortune to be raised in Texas. He has served in the Jesuit Volunteer Corps and taught at the St. Labre Mission School on the Northern Cheyenne Reservation in Montana. Mr. Newcomb has written plays, film scripts, commercials, liturgical dramas, and over thirty novels under both his own name and a variety of pseudonyms. He lives with his family in Ft. Worth, Texas
Kerry Newcomb was born in Milford, Connecticut, but had the good fortune to be raised in Texas. He has served in the Jesuit Volunteer Corps and taught at the St. Labre Mission School on the Northern Cheyenne Reservation in Montana. Mr. Newcomb has written plays, film scripts, commercials, liturgical dramas, and over thirty novels under both his own name and a variety of pseudonyms. He lives with his family in Ft. Worth, Texas.
Read an Excerpt
Rogue River
By Kerry Newcomb
St. Martin's Press
Copyright © 1987 James RenoAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-7872-9
CHAPTER 1
MONTANA TERRITORY, 1876
There were two things Cole Tyler Anthem especially hated on that bitter cold afternoon in mid-March. One was Sam Dollard, the scout for the Army survey detail, a man Cole believed had led them into a Cheyenne ambush. The other was the chill north wind that numbed his fingers and caused him to fumble with the cartridges as he slid them into the chamber of his Yellowboy Winchester. He cursed the day he had hired on as wrangler for Doc Fleming's survey crew. Cole had only taken the job to keep track of Dollard, who was now wanted by the law in Kansas and Colorado. Posters out of Denver claimed attempted murder. Attempted, hell. He's getting us all killed today, Cole thought as he ducked a red-tipped arrow arcing toward him. It thwacked into the makeshift barricade of timber Cole was hiding behind. "Kill us all," he thought aloud as he stared at the mass of Red Shield warriors streaming out of the wooded hillside.
The Red Shields were one of the most feared of all the Cheyenne warrior societies, and certainly the most fearsome-looking. They colored their flesh with red war paint and smeared the hooves of their mounts as well. Their war shields were crimson-tinted hide, and several carried twelve-foot-long spears, the blades blood-red. The braves wore buffalo hats, the horns also tipped with what looked to be dried blood. Such warriors took no wives, had no families. They lived only for battle.
"Well, enjoy yourselves, you bastards," Cole muttered as he finished loading his carbine.
"Goddamn that Dollard. Calls himself a scout? Lawd, he couldn't find snow in a blizzard," a man spoke up on Cole's left. Anthem rolled on his side and recognized a young private by the name of Meadows. The soldier clutched his Springfield breechloader and stared at the woods.
"I seen him — seen Medicine Bear. He's the one yonder with the bear claws hung around his neck. Never thought we'd run into him. And now he's gonna kill us!" Private Meadows rose to his knees, his face filled with terror.
"I saw Doc Fleming killed. See him, there yonder." Meadows lifted a trembly hand. "Lieutenant's dead too." His eyes widened.
"Oh my God," he groaned. Cole reached for him, but the soldier pulled away and struggled to his feet. He stepped over the log and was stopped in his tracks by a swarm of lead slugs that tore into his thin, bony frame as the Red Shields across the clearing opened up with their rifles. His whole body shuddered at the impact. A bullet flattened against his side, and he sat down on Anthem's log.
Meadows' expression was one of surprise and disbelief as he looked slowly down at his ravaged torso. Then his eyes dimmed and he pitched forward off the log, breaking off a branch and ripping the sleeve of his tattered blue coat. A small gush of bright blood stained the trampled snow as he stiffened and died.
Cole did the only thing he could for Meadows. He squeezed off a shot at the braves massing on the edge of the woods. Nearly twenty warriors waited among the shadows of the lodgepole pines. Cole's breath steamed from between his frost-cracked lips in a low whistle.
Suddenly there was quiet in the clearing. The tiny area of the mountain took on a tranquillity whose benevolence was denied only by the scattered dead. The survey's campsite was littered with corpses. Here and there a body stirred, an arm rose out of the snow and as quickly settled back. Someone groaned, another poor soul took up the mournful song. The onslaught had lasted but a few minutes. Medicine Bear had led a red tide of more than forty warriors that swept through the unsuspecting party's loose circle of wagons, trampling and killing most of the command, before they were driven off to the line of trees about fifty yards away. Spirals of smoke rose in the cold, wet air as the wagons burned, and a hushed expectancy settled over the scene.
Away from the wagons and safely hidden in the shadows of the lodgepole pines, Medicine Bear, astride bald-faced pinto, was deciding whether or not to risk another full-scale attack or try to pick the remaining ve-ho-e off from the trees. It was a risky business. The first assault had cost half a dozen braves, and he was loath to lose any more to the soldiers' Springfields. On the other hand, the battle had whetted his appetite. The more scalps he carried to the great gathering of Sioux and Cheyenne, the greater his honor and prestige. Could Sitting Bull or Gall or Crazy Horse boast of the first victory over the white-eyes?
Life came to the smoked-filled clearing as the living struggled to more comfortable positions and looked around to see who was still alive. Cole Anthem, behind his barricade between two of the wagons, checked the remains of the survey party. The bodies of Doc Fleming and his accompanying surveyors were sprawled in the snow, half- concealed by their trampled tents. Out of a military detail of twelve men he counted five living and able to fight. He added two surviving teamsters to his count. Seven, and Cole made eight. Eight men and Lord only knew how many Cheyenne.
A flurry of snowflakes from the frigid, colorless sky settled on his neck. Cole shivered, and not only from the cold. The situation looked pretty hopeless. He had no illusions about the camp's ability to withstand another attack.
Anthem drew his revolver, a Colt .45, opened the cylinder, and removed a cartridge. He bit off the bullet — an act that loosened a couple of molars — resealed the cartridge with wadding, and returned it to the cylinder. He placed the weapon close at hand on the log.
He cursed Sam Dollard again for leading the detail into such a trap. Where the hell was Dollard anyway? He cursed Doc Fleming and the military for the fool need to map these mountains. And he didn't forget to curse himself for hiring on as a wrangler.
"I'm the biggest fool of all," he muttered. He should never have waited for Dollard, but taken the man and not worried about the consequences of Dollard's being attached to the military. Revenge and a seven-hundred-dollar bounty weren't worth getting scalped for.
He took stock of the situation. Eight men couldn't hold their position. The makeshift barricade he was hiding behind was rapidly disappearing in the fire, and it now barely concealed his lanky frame. Anthem was a blunt, square-featured individual with harsh blue eyes and straw-colored hair hanging to his neck. A thick yellow mustache hid his upper lip. Grim-faced, he turned to the men around him.
"There's a creek and a stand of trees yonder," he called out. "At least we won't have to die in the flames."
The teamsters and soldiers glanced behind them at the timber, a fringe of oak and willow lining the creek bank.
"Sounds good to me," one of the teamsters said. It looked to be about a hundred feet away.
"It's a sight more cover than this barrel of apples." Sergeant Danny McKane spoke up from amongst the soldiers. The sergeant was a gray-haired, slightly built Irishman. Gregarious to a fault, he could brawl in the best tradition of the sons of Eire. "And I'd as soon let these red devils send me under as roast in their fire."
McKane scratched his stubbly chin, tugged the ragged mustache he wore, then chuckled aloud.
"I run ol' Medicine Bear out of Fort Conrad once," the sergeant said. "Drunk on settler's whiskey he was, and braggin' about how he was a big man among the Cheyenne. And I had to go and put me boot to his backside."
"Better hope Medicine Bear has a bad memory," Anthem called out.
"It don't look it! Here they come!" one of the soldiers shouted.
"Head for the creek, lads," McKane yelled, and scrambled to his feet.
Cole looked toward the hillside in time to see the Red Shields streaming down the forested slope at a gallop. The hooves on their war ponies trampled the snow and drummed upon the earth like an army cadence. War cries filled the air and smoke blossomed from the ends of their rifles.
Red lances lowered as braves vied with one another to be the first to impale a fleeing soldier.
Cole stood, loosed a shot, then, remembering, grabbed his revolver and headed for the creek. He had barely cleared the circled wagons when the Red Shields charged into the smoky clearing. Cole realized with a sickening feeling that he would never reach the creek. He ran a dozen yards out into the trampled buffalo grass, spun around, and dropped to one knee, momentarily losing his foot in the moist snow.
He snapped the Winchester up to his shoulder. The carbine seemed an extension of himself. Its brass frame gleamed even in the dull light as Cole steadied the weapon, drawing a bead on the curtain of smoke that obscured the campsite.
A Cheyenne brave materialized alongside a burning wagon. He came riding at a gallop, his warpainted physique and his shield and lance that appeared to be dipped in blood, a chilling sight. Cole shifted his aim, squeezed off a shot. The warrior pitched from horseback. A dozen more apparitions took his place. Twenty, thirty braves, Medicine Bear himself, charged out of the smoke.
Some of the soldiers reached the trees. Others took what cover they could find. One of the teamsters, armed with a Spencer, moved up abreast of Cole's Winchester, and the two weapons sent a flurry of lead that downed horses and riders. The attackers parted and swept past the two men.
"I wish I was back in Texas," Cole said, his voice lost in the rattle of gunfire.
Behind him, guns began to speak back at the creek. The crack- crack-crack of the Springfields and the screams of the dying spoke volumes of the desperate struggle taking place.
There was no time to listen. Levering spent cartridges, cocking, and firing took every second. Cole barely had time to aim, but that was of little consequence, for he fired almost instinctively at the quickly moving figures rushing past.
"Anthem!" The teamster shouted a warning. Cole heard him and swung the carbine in the direction the man had indicated, but the mounted warrior bore down on him fast, charging through the tall grass, less than a stride away.
Cole instinctively fired, batted the Indian's spear point, and tried to dodge the horse, but failed. The animal slammed into Cole and knocked him backward into the snow. A hoof narrowly missed his skull as the horse galloped past, its rider doubled over in pain and clinging to the mane.
Cole gasped for air and struggled to maintain consciousness. He pushed himself aright, realized he was unarmed, and began numbly searching for his carbine.
The air suddenly grew thick with the whir of arrows, spiced with an angry buzz of bullets fired from the guns the Indians had traded for. The teamster with the Spencer was desperately slamming shells into his repeater when three arrows ended his frantic attempt. He dropped the rifle, his face contorted with pain as he fell forward into the frozen mud and snow and gave a long, last agonizing cry.
Cole remembered his revolver, dragged it from the holster. The gunfire back toward the river stopped, which meant the fighting there was over. In fact, a stillness had settled over the entire meadow. The moment had come. The Cheyenne braves were returning from the creek to join an ever-increasing circle about the lone remaining white man in the snow-patched clearing.
Snow began to drift in lazy flurries from the slategray clouds that formed an ominous low ceiling overhead.
Cole checked his weapon, positioning the cylinder until the blank was in line with the cocked hammer. He waited, wincing as he inhaled and his chest expanded, his bruised ribs protesting with the effort.
The circle of braves tightened as one brave in particular broke off from the others. He was a lithe, muscular individual with his solemn features hidden behind a layer of garish war paint. A bear-claw necklace hung down his chest. Medicine Bear brandished a twelve- foot spear, and raised the weapon so that Cole could see the freshly severed head impaled on the flint blade.
Cole recognized the head of one of the troopers who had fled with the sergeant toward the creek. The circling braves stopped and turned their horses toward the man in the middle.
Medicine Bear raised up on horseback and snapped the spear shaft forward. The head flew through the air, landed in the snow, and rolled to within a few feet of the white man, who jumped away despite himself. The circle of Red Shield warriors exploded in laughter. Anthem flushed. He didn't like being ridiculed.
"White man," shouted Medicine Bear, "what is your name?" His voice reverberated across the meadow.
"Cole Tyler Anthem," the bounty hunter replied.
"Cole Tyler Anthem," I think I will take your head for my lance, "the war chief said. "I think it will bring me much good fortune."
"It hasn't brought me any," Cole replied sourly.
Medicine Bear considered the man's reply, caught the sense of Cole's jest, and began to laugh. He repeated the exchange in Cheyenne for the benefit of his braves, who laughed and shook their weapons at the circled man.
"Die well, ve-ho-e, and we will sing of your deeds around our campfire even while we eat your heart," Medicine Bear called out.
His war horse pranced and fought the reins, reared and pawed the air. Medicine Bear loosed a wild cry. Raven feathers adorning his buffalo cap splayed out, adding to his fearful appearance.
The surrounding braves took up their war chief's cry. The noise was deafening, chilling.
Cole stood his ground, facing the war chief of the Red Shields bearing down on him. He waited, wanting to be certain that Medicine Bear and the rest of the warriors could see him.
A shouting horde of savages, drumming hooves, a twelve-foot lance in the hands of a fanatic warrior — the entire scene froze for a second, as if time itself had paused. Cole smiled and raised the revolver to his head.
"Sorry, fellows," he said. And he fired the gun into the side of his skull.
CHAPTER 2Darkness. A motionless void. Silence. Nothing. And then something. A pinprick of light, and with it, pain. Cole focused on both, the light and the hurt. He clung to both in desperation, knowing to lose his grip meant a free-fall into a never-ending abyss.
A voice exhorted him to hang on, hang on, not to let go. It was his own voice.
A few seconds or maybe an eternity later (for who could tell the difference in such a place), darkness became a warm, bright memory. Two boys, all of thirteen, out hunting deer in the shadow of Mescalero Lookout appeared — Cole Anthem and his twin, Billy, waited patiently beneath the slow crawl of a lazy Texas sun. At the base of the slope in a dry wash, a mule deer hesitated and Cole fired.
"Got him!" Cole shouted, scrambling past his brother to hurry down the gully. When he reached his kill, Cole blooded himself, dipping his fingers into the gaping wound left by the slug.
The image faded, became another kind of blooding, the carnage of battle. Union and Confederate soldiers sighting one another through black clouds of gunsmoke. Minie balls swarmed like bees. And everywhere lay the twisted, wrecked, and ruptured bodies of the wounded and slain.
Pain again. Cole gasped. The scene changed yet once more, and he was a lone young man wandering the West, a remnant of war. Too proud to return penniless and ragged to Luminaria, his father's ranch, Cole had nothing but his pride. Then, after being braced in a dusty street in a Kansas town, he had acquired something else. Reward money and a reputation as a "bad 'un to cross" despite his youth.
Now the memories came flashing past, almost too swiftly to recognize. John Anthem, his father, broad-shouldered and bullnecked and true. Rose Anthem, Cole's mother, regal and graceful and spirited as a wild colt, high-strung as his sister, Rachel, though not as rash. Were anything to happen to Big John Anthem, Cole had no doubt but that the "Yellow Rose" could hold the Anthem domain together.
There had been a homecoming. Billy had gotten himself into trouble and it took a man like Cole Anthem to set things right for his twin. By then Cole had gained another sobriquet as well: Men called him "Yellowboy" for his skill with the brass-framed Winchester '66 that was never far from his fingertips. He was a hunter of men — a bounty hunter. It was a profession he had grown accustomed to. And so he had drifted once again, this time heading north to the mountains and the lure of their vast summits, the high lonesome.
He had hoped to find his fortune there among the lofty ranges and wild free places. He'd hoped to find whatever it was his restless spirit seeked. He never thought his quest would end this way.
Cole opened his eyes and stared up at the gunmetal-gray sky. Sparse snowflakes settled on his cheek, forehead, and bloody, burned scalp. He managed to wriggle his fingers and toes and was relieved to find himself in one piece. So, his ruse had worked. A Cheyenne warrior never touched one who had taken his own life. Suicide was the worst kind of deed, and only evil could be gained from such an encounter.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Rogue River by Kerry Newcomb. Copyright © 1987 James Reno. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
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