The Ripper of Storyville and Other Ben Snow Stories Page 3

  “Count of ten, Sheriff?”

  “Count of ten’s OK.”

  Ben started to count. “One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . six . . .”

  And Pedley joined him for the last four numbers. “ . . .seven . . . eight . . . nine . . .” A pause ever so slight. “. . . ten . . .”

  Ben’s gun was out of the holster before the final word had left his mouth.

  His finger was squeezing the trigger.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Pedley’s gun was coming fast, his eyes glistening like a tiger’s.

  Ben’s finger tightened a third time and got only a click. Pedley smiled and paused a split second for a careful aim. And Ben’s gun roared on the fourth try.

  Pedley spun around with the bullet’s impact and went down in the dust, and his finger jerked spasmodically on the trigger. Then he was dead.

  Ben sighed and holstered his gun. He didn’t look at the sheriff again, but walked away instead, back toward the doorway where Cathy waited. “Ben! How . . .?”

  “I’ve done it before, back in New Mexico,” he said quietly. “I can always get off five before the other man fires, so really the odds are on my side. They always take their time because they figure they’ve got me.”

  “Oh God, Ben!”

  “Pedley was wrong about one thing, though. These people don’t care whether he’s dead or alive.” He motioned toward the body, where a crowd of quiet people was collecting.

  “You’ll be leaving now, Ben?”

  “I might as well. Let someone else fight over the Golden Swan.”

  “Ben . . . you are a gunfighter, aren’t you?”

  “You might say that.”

  Her voice dropped to a quiet whisper. “Are you . . . Billy the Kid?”

  “Was anybody?” he answered. “Was he ever just one man, or was he just a collection of legends?”

  “Are you?”

  “Ben Snow’s the name,” he answered with a smile. “Remember that.” And presently he rode away from the town called Frontier, and all was at peace once more . . .

  THE VALLEY OF ARROWS

  Ben Snow wiped the sweat from his forehead and hunched over his saddle, gazing down into the peaceful valley before him. In another year, another age, this might have been farmland, or a sea of grazing grass for the great herds to the east. It might have marked the birthplace of a town or an empire. But right now there was only the fort, pale in the morning light, seemingly asleep.

  Fort Arrowhead was a handsome place from up there, stretching across the valley like some great wooden throne. The men who manned it were mere ants, moving in and out of the gates, carrying on their various functions in a world all their own.

  Ben sighed and turned his horse down the narrow grassy trail into the valley. This was the place he sought, a tiny dot on all but the newest maps. A city in the making, perhaps, or possibly just a last outpost against the red man.

  Fort Arrowhead.

  They had seen him coming from a great distance, and a dozen rifles glinted in the morning sun, following the slow movements of his horse. He didn’t blame them for their caution. At that distance he could have been an Indian as easily as a white man. When he’d ridden a bit closer he saw some of the rifles disappear from the top of the wooden wall. An officer and two soldiers appeared at the gate, motioning him to stop.

  “Pause and state your business,” the officer commanded.

  Ben brought the horse up short, keeping the smile on his face. “Ben Snow’s the name. I’m here to see your commanding officer.”

  “What about?” the officer asked suspiciously.

  “Indians,” Ben answered simply.

  “Dismount and lead your horse.” Ben obeyed and followed the man inside the compound, across an area of stained and dusty grass that told him Fort Arrowhead had not been too long in this location—not long enough to wear the grass from underfoot, at least. The people, most of those who clustered around for a look at this new arrival, were soldiers—though he was surprised at the number of women at the fort. The distant cries of children told him that whole families apparently made it their home. Hazardous as it was, perhaps there was more safety here than out among the dark hills where any rock or bush could hide an enemy with a flaming arrow.

  Presently the officer paused before a long wooden cabin with a flag rippling gently before it. “Wait here,” he said, and motioned to the two soldiers to make certain Ben did just that. He entered the building and spoke a few words to some unseen person, then returned to the door and motioned Ben inside.

  The commanding officer of Fort Arrowhead was Colonel Noakes, a tall rangy man with a white mustache that reminded Ben of Custer. He spoke only occasionally, preferring a monosyllabic reply to the longer messages of other men. Ben had heard of him, because army men like Colonel Noakes brought a legend with them wherever they went. He’d fought in the Civil War a year after West Point, at Bull Run, and marched through the south with Sherman.

  He’d gone west in the seventies, to fight Indians with the rest of the war-trained troops. He’d been promoted to captain under Custer, and had only missed the Little Big Horn because he’d been on leave, back in Chicago. After that he’d risen swiftly to major, and then to colonel, leading the great revenge raids that tore the Indian from his land and splattered the west with years of blood.

  Colonel Noakes was a man the Indians hated. It could be said that he did not likewise hate them, but that detail did not change the situation at Fort Arrowhead. Whereas Noakes felt with all his heart that he was only doing a fighting man’s duty to his country, the Indians who now ringed the valley unseen had other ideas. To them, Noakes was another Custer—a man to be killed in the heat of battle, or knifed in the silence of sleep. Noakes was in command at Fort Arrowhead, and that was why this outpost had been picked for the attack both sides knew was only days or hours away.

  “Colonel Noakes, my name is Ben Snow . . .”

  He looked up, nodded. “Heard of you. Well?”

  “Could I speak to you alone, sir?”

  Noakes waved the other officer away and repeated, “Well?”

  “Sir, I have come upon information that could be of vital importance to you . . .”

  The colonel grunted. “What?”

  “Someone at Fort Arrowhead is in league with the Indians.”

  Had he expected the statement to take Colonel Noakes by surprise, he’d have been disappointed. The tall man took the news without turning a hair. “Very interesting. Who?”

  “That I don’t know, sir, though it may very well be one of your officers. I picked up a trail yesterday, up in the hills. Two Indians had met with someone —someone who rode a shod horse. I followed the horse back to the fort. Since you have rigid security measures in force, it’s my guess that only an officer could have gotten out alone.”

  Colonel Noakes cleared his throat. “Quite right. Thank you.” His gaze returned to the papers on his desk, as if Ben had merely told him the time of day.

  “But, sir . . .”

  “That’s all, Snow.”

  Ben turned and went outside. So the trip down into the valley had been for nothing. The man who sat behind the desk was not interested in betrayal by one of his officers. He looked up at the sky and cursed the dark gray clouds that warned of rain in the distant mountains.

  “You all through?” a voice asked, and he saw the officer who’d admitted him.

  “I guess so.”

  “You’re Ben Snow, huh?”

  “That’s the name.”

  “Heard about you, from some people in Frontier. You’re pretty fast with a gun.”

  “I rarely use it,” Ben answered honestly. “I believe any dispute that can’t be settled with fists shouldn’t be settled with guns.”

  The officer merely smiled. “They say you killed two men back in Frontier. With your gun.”

  Ben frowned at the man, ignoring the last statement. “I didn’t catch your name, Captain.”

  The officer bowed slightly. “Captain Roberts, sir, at your service.”

  “Glad to meet you, Captain. But I do think I should be getting along now, before the storm breaks.”

  “One moment, if you would be so kind, Mr. Snow.” He laid a hand on Ben’s shoulder. “There’s someone who wants to meet you.”

  “To meet me?” Ben followed him across the central yard to one of the houses on the far side. Could there be someone here from his past, from those years of wandering and doubt?

  “In here,” Captain Roberts said, holding open the door. It was obviously an officer’s residence, belonging to Roberts or one of the others. Ben walked in, adjusted his eyes to the dimness, and made out finally the shadowy figure of a young woman. He had only a second to dive to one side before she fired the revolver she held in her hand.

  And she would have fired again had not Roberts leapt in at her, pinning her arms to her sides. “Anita, you crazy fool!” he shouted out. “You’ll have the whole garrison down on us!”

  Captain Roberts pulled the gun from her hand and rushed back outside to meet anyone the shot had attracted. Ben picked himself up from the floor and took a better look at the woman who’d just tried to kill him. She was about his age—perhaps thirty or thirty-one—with tired eyes that reflected too many years west of the Mississippi.

  “To what do I owe the honor?” he asked quietly.

  “I . . . You don’t look like him . . .” Her expression was puzzled, unbelieving.

  “Like who?”

  “Billy the Kid,” she answered quietly. “I heard he wasn’t dead. I heard . . . that you were Billy the Kid, come back from the grave . . .”

  Ben sighed and sat down. Everywhere it was the same. Everywhere the same story. “Do I lo
ok like Billy the Kid?” he asked her.

  “No, not really. The . . . the face is the same, but you’re taller, stronger.”

  “You knew him?”

  She nodded, a slight jerky movement of her head that he barely caught. “Nine years ago, just before he died. In a little town in New Mexico . . .”

  “And you thought it was me. You thought he was still alive.”

  The nod was firmer now. “They said he was alive. They said he was in Frontier, using the name of Ben Snow. And that’s you.”

  “Which only goes to prove you can’t believe everything you hear.” He paused and studied her a bit more intently. “Are you Mrs. Roberts?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “Three years now. He’s a good man but he doesn’t understand me.”

  “Did Billy?”

  The eyes flickered shut a moment. “Sometimes. That was a long time ago.” Then the eyes came open. “What brings you to Fort Arrowhead, Mr. Snow?”

  “A useless mission, I’m afraid. I stumbled upon some information I thought might be of interest to your commanding officer. I was wrong.”

  The door behind him opened and Captain Roberts reappeared. His face was white and his voice trembling. “God, Anita—some savage has gotten in and killed Colonel Noakes . . .”

  The effect of his words on Ben was not as startling as it might have been. The Navajo horsemen were waiting just beyond the hills, and it was not impossible that one of them had somehow penetrated the walls of Fort Arrowhead to kill the man they hated so much.

  “How?” Ben asked, because it seemed a likely question.

  “An arrow. Through his throat. The men outside never heard a thing. Major Schult just found him.”

  “Who’s in charge now?”

  Roberts thought a moment. “Why—Schult is second in command.”

  “I want to see him—right away.” They hurried away, leaving Anita Roberts alone in the dim quarters that were her home. Outside, the distant playing of children could still be heard—but now Ben noticed another sound, or absence of sound. The headquarters building he’d left such a short time before was now a magnet of silent activity. A dozen uniformed officers were clustered around, their voices dulled as if in deference to the dead.

  Major Schult was shorter than the others around him, and he conveyed the impression of a latter-day Napoleon. Now, with the mantle of leadership suddenly draped around his shoulders, he seemed calm and efficient, issuing orders with the same subdued tone that the others used.

  “Major Schult? My name’s Ben Snow. I’d like to speak to you, sir.”

  “Snow? Snow?” he repeated, seeming to search his memory for some past knowledge of the name. “Can’t you see I’m busy, man?”

  “I’m afraid it’s about Colonel Noakes, sir. And the Navajo.”

  “Well . . . come in here.” He led the way into the office, carefully looking away from the crumpled thing behind the desk. But Ben looked, and saw the body of Colonel Noakes, a Navajo arrow protruding from the left side of his neck. The arrow was slanted downward, as if it had been fired from above, and Ben’s eyes went automatically to the ceiling of the little room. His gaze met only the brown beams of the solid wooden roof, without an opening in it.

  “I spoke to the colonel as soon as I arrived,” Ben began when they were alone in the room with the dead man. “I told him I’d stumbled on hoofprints up the valley, showing that someone from the fort had met with two Navajos. There was something funny—secret—about the whole look of it. I knew at once that this was no peace meeting or truce talk. Someone from this fort—probably an officer since he was out alone—had met the Indians for a purpose I could only guess.”

  “You told the colonel this?” Schult asked, a frown beginning to crawl across his wide forehead.

  “I told him.”

  “You really believe this?”

  “I believe there are a half-thousand Navajo braves waiting just beyond the hill. Perhaps they’re waiting for a signal.”

  Major Schult thought about this a moment before replying. “You’re aware of the situation here? You’re aware that it’s him they’re after?” He motioned toward the body almost at their feet.

  “I’ve heard stories,” Ben admitted. “He was an old Indian-fighter.”

  “Ever fight Indians yourself?”

  “I was with the army at Wounded Knee earlier this year.”

  Schult’s face reflected a brief expression of disgust. “I mean fight them, not massacre them. Indians are human just like you and me. There are ways of dealing with them.”

  Ben’s mouth twisted in a hint of a smile. “What deal would you suggest in the present circumstances?”

  Major Schult thought about it for only a brief moment before replying. “You and I could ride out there and tell them the colonel is dead. It might stop the attack. We could even give up his body if necessary.”

  “Don’t you think they know?”

  He shook his head. “I’d stake my life that no Navajo entered this compound. Something, someone else killed Colonel Noakes.”

  “And you think this would turn back those Indians? You think we could get within a mile of them without being shot down?”

  “I think they’d respect a flag of truce, Mr. Snow.”

  “Why me? Why do I get picked for the job?”

  “Two reasons. It’ll get you out of here safely, and it’ll give me someone I can trust. If your story is true, any of my men might be the traitor.”

  Well, that was it, and Ben saw no way out of it for himself. He didn’t trust the waiting Navajo, but it seemed at least as safe as remaining here at Arrowhead, in the company of an unknown traitor, a murdering Indian, and a girl who had tried once to kill him. “All right,” he decided. “When do we go?”

  “Right now. They’re certainly not going to sit out there beyond that hill all day . . .”

  They rode out, into the valley, with Major Schult holding high a white guidon signaling their friendly intentions. For the first half hour they saw not a living soul, and the conversation between them was limited to speculation about the great black clouds that still lurked near at hand.

  Presently, though, Schult turned to Ben. “I see you’re still wearing your gun. Perhaps you should remove it.”

  “I feel more comfortable with it on,” Ben told him. “If you knew more about Indians you’d be wearing sidearms, too.”

  “Not with a truce flag. Guns poison the atmosphere.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Some folks say you look a bit like Billy the Kid used to,” the major said casually.

  Ben kept his eyes straight ahead. “Billy’s been dead nine years. I can’t help what stories get started. Talk to Captain Roberts’ wife some time. She knew Billy quite well.”

  “Oh?”

  “Anyway, there are the people we came to see,” Ben said, motioning toward the rocky bluff ahead. A party of Navajo scouts, perhaps nine or ten of them, had appeared over the ridge. They stood simply watching, waiting, making no move to challenge or stop them.

  “What now?” Major Schult asked.

  “They’ll have a leader somewhere,” Ben said. “If they don’t kill us they’ll probably take us to him.” And even as he spoke the Indians began riding down around them, forming a silent circle as if at the command of some unseen chieftain.

  “They seem to have us,” Schult said.

  “At least we’re still alive. You keep your hand on that white flag and I’ll keep mine near my gun.”

  Presently the surrounding circle of Indians paused, and down a narrow gully rode a single Navajo warrior such as Ben had never seen before. The man was tall, over six feet, and his hair was pure white even in youth. He carried himself upon his horse like some Greek god and wore only a single feather in the band around his forehead. But the most amazing thing about him was that he carried not a weapon. Not even a knife hung by his side as he rode toward them.

  “I am called Running Bear,” he said. “These are my people.”

  “You are Navajo?” Major Schult asked.

  The great head shook. “I am from the north. I have met your Colonel Noakes on the plain of battle before. He killed many braves.”

  “Colonel Noakes is dead,” Ben told him, “slain not an hour ago by a Navajo arrow.”

  The eyes flickered, but no other expression crossed the face of Running Bear. “Are these words true?” he asked Schult.