Free A Tale Out of Luck by Willie Nelson, Mike Blakely Page B

couldn’t get rid of that arrow fast enough. He seemed to fear it the way Corporal Cornelius had feared catching albinism earlier that day.
    “He says it does not belong to any warrior in his camp.”
    “But he recognized it, didn’t he? Ask him.”
    The translator had an exchange with the chief. “He said he will have all his warriors give you one arrow to show that the designs are not the same. He said they are not even carrying war points, only hunting points.”
    “He’s avoiding my question. Ask him again if he knows who this arrow belongs to. Tell him the owner of this arrow killed the owner of that claybank horse.” Major Quitman pointed toward the Indians’ pony herd. “Ask him again who owns this arrow.”
    “He says he cannot speak the name.”
    “Or
will
not.” The major drew himself up into his most authoritative posture. “Tell him every warrior in his camp must ride back to Fort Jennings with us for further questioning. Order each man to bring his arrows.”
    As Gutierrez made the translation, Crazy Bear frowned. But he and his grandson, the Wolf, began talking things over, and it looked to Polk as if they were about to give in to the major’s demand. Until that big rancher, Jack Brennan, rode his horse into the Indian camp.
    “Hey!” Brennan said, charging in among the tepees. “What the hell is this?”
    Crazy Bear and his followers turned in anger at the disrespectful invasion of the camp and glowered as the big white man leaned sideways on his mount, low enough to snatch up a fine, tooled saddle in an impressive feat of strength.
    “This is the saddle I saw on that claybank at the saloon! Tell me that don’t prove they killed the son of a bitch.” Then Brennan dropped the saddle and drew his Colt. “That one’s armed!” he shouted, and fired at some target that Polk could not see behind one of the lodges.
    Skittish cavalry mounts dodged in every direction with the first gunshot, and the Double Horn cowboys opened fire on the camp. As Polk had feared, muzzle blasts flashed from inside the nearby lodges, and Corporal Cornelius flew off the rump of his horse, the back of his head having become a pulpy mass of bone, brains, and blood. As warriors scattered, firing bullets and arrows, the cowboys charged haphazardly through the camp.
    Polk’s horse wheeled, and he caught sight of the major. The officer’s hat had flown off, and blood was trickling down into one eye. Then the major drew his revolver and blindly pulled the trigger without aiming, his shot hitting Chief Crazy Bear in the stomach. The chief dropped his peace flags. The Wolf still stood beside him, stringing his bow.
    Another blast came from somewhere in camp, hitting Major Quitman square in the chest, killing him before his body could hit the ground.
    In this chaos, Polk noticed that Gavilan Gutierrez had charged off with the cowboys, who were riding in different directions through the camp, firing everywhere. Forcing his startled pony to face the camp again, Polk saw the Wolf notching an arrow. It flew before Polk could swing his pistol barrel around, and the arrow hit the first sergeant in one of those bulging stripes on his sleeve. Polk fired back, but only managed to cut the buffalo sinew string on the Wolf’s bow.
    The Wolf looped old Crazy Bear’s arm over his shoulders and dragged him away from the soldiers, ignoring the crossfire from the cowboys and a few soldiers who had gotten control of their mounts and begun to shoot without orders to do so.
    “Hold your fire!” Polk shouted. He yanked at the arrow in his arm, but the point was stuck in the bone. Adrenaline shot through him and he pulled as hard as he could until the arrow came cleanly free. He took note of the hunting point before he threw it down on the ground.
    “Dismount!” Polk ordered. He knew he had to get the men off of those gun-shy mustangs. “Every fourth man, hold the horses here! Wounded men stay here with the dead. The rest of you form up on