Four full grown Cartwrights—and one overworked Doc Martin—being bested by a bunch of angry, young Shoshoni boys could provide fodder for some uproarious saloon talk…if they can live long enough for their story to be told. SJS, SAS, ESA, ESH, ESB

Rated: T  WC  18,500

• See End Notes at end (including some Shoshone words)
• See old reviews on last page

Ten Little Indians

 

XxXxX

1

Ben wiped a tear from the corner of his eye as he tried to catch his breath. “I don’t….” It was a struggle to even speak. “I don’t remember the last time I laughed so hard,” he finally managed, still chuckling.

Approaching the campfire with five freshly filled canteens, Joe grinned and let out a giggle of his own. “I’m sure I’ve never seen you laugh so hard.” He looked to Adam. “Have you ever seen him laugh like that?”

“Sure.” Adam’s grin was every bit as wide as Joe’s. He wrapped his hands behind his head and leaned back against a well-positioned log. “Before you were born.”

“Hey!” Joe complained.

“Oh, come on, Adam.” Hoss threw in, turning his attention briefly from the pan full of fish he had sizzling over the campfire. “You know that ain’t true. He couldn’t help but laugh first time he saw how funny-lookin’ little brother here was.”

“Yeah?” Joe complained. “You just wait ’til you see what I put in your canteen, older brother.” His exaggerated scowl was outdone by Hoss’s nervous glance toward the canteen Joe tossed toward him.

It was almost hard to believe how well the afternoon had gone. This had been one fishing trip that had been put off for far too long. Apparently, Ben’s old friend, Paul Martin, agreed. He was leaning back much like Adam, and smiling every bit as broadly as any of Ben’s sons.

“Ben,” Paul said. “I have to admit, I’m glad you dragged me out here.”

“It’s about time you finally allowed me to.”

“I think I was too tired to fight it this time.”

Ben nodded. “I think you’re right. That epidemic very nearly did you in.”

“It’s times like that I do wish there were more doctors out here.”

“Yes, well, we’ve all found ourselves wishing that, time and again. I suppose it makes us all the more grateful to have you around.”

“Oh, so that’s how it is, is it? It’s not that you actually like my company. You just like to keep me around so my doctoring can keep you and your boys around.”

“You keep Pa laughing like that,” Adam said then, “I might just think it’d be worth it to go back to school and learn some doctoring myself to lighten your load.”

“Once weren’t enough for you?” Hoss asked.

Curious what had drawn Little Joe toward the brush on the outskirts of the camp, Ben didn’t catch Adam’s reply. “Joe?” he called out.

“Go on, Joe,” Hoss added. “You just stay out there and miss out on some of the best tastin’ trout you ever could have. I’ll be glad to take your share.”

But the jest seemed lost on Joe. His smile was gone when he reappeared. He walked slowly toward the campfire, his gaze moving frequently back into the trees. Ben knew that look in his young son’s eyes. He had seen it often enough out on the trail. Usually, it meant a wolf, a puma or even rustlers were nearby, waiting to take a stray calf or a wandering steer.

“What’s wrong?” Ben asked, concern beginning to churn away at his hunger.

“I heard something.” Joe shrugged and forced a new smile. “Probably just a squirrel.”

Hoss curled up his nose as he pulled the pan from the fire. “Better not be a skunk. I don’t want nothin’ to ruin this fine cookin’.” Sniffing at the steaming trout, Hoss smiled good and wide. “Now that sure beats the smell of skunk any day!”

And it was fine cooking, fine enough to settle Ben’s nerves, though he couldn’t help but notice Joe seemed particularly alert throughout the meal. Little Joe kept his back straight while his eyes strayed outward. After all the plates were empty, he even volunteered to clean up. He laughed at his brothers’ taunts as he gathered the dishes, but tensed when he rose, looking a bit like a puma himself, one that sensed prey nearby.

No one else seemed to notice. Adam’s eyes were drifting closed and Paul was joking about Hoss taking over Hop Sing’s kitchen. Surely if something was out there, Ben and his other sons would be as wary as Joe. So just what was bothering his youngest son? Ben pressed his hand against the ground, ready to push himself to his feet while Hoss said something about wanting to stay on Hop Sing’s good side.

“Hey, Pa.” Hoss’s call stopped Ben from rising and pulled his attention briefly away from Joe’s retreating back. “You won’t tell him, will you?”

“What?”

“You won’t tell Hop Sing how good this trout was here today. Will you?”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want him to think we don’t need him to cook no more.”

Ben smiled. “Oh, he knows we need him, alright. He just—”

A grunt from Joe and the clatter of tin plates took the rest of his words. Looking up past Adam, Ben saw Joe had fallen to one knee, the plates scattered around him in the dirt. It wasn’t until Adam turned that Ben saw the arrow protruding from Joe’s right arm.

XxXxX

The attack was quick and effective. Before Ben could reach for his gun, he found himself facing two Indians—two young Indians. Shoshoni, from the cut of their hair and clothes. They were boys, really, clearly too young yet to be called men. But there was something Ben could almost describe as old hatred in their eyes, and each held a knife aimed menacingly at Ben’s stomach. Boys they might be; they were dangerous, nonetheless.

Freezing where he stood, Ben cast his gaze around him to find three more boys surrounding Hoss. One held a spear, its point angled upward, toward Hoss’s heart. Two others pulled Adam precariously close to a slit throat: one stood behind Ben’s oldest son with the edge of his knife poised over the delicate skin beneath Adam’s chin; the other faced Adam with a spear of his own. Ben had to force himself to stand firm, keenly aware that moving too suddenly could cause any one of these boys to lash out without thinking. He swallowed bile, and then hesitantly turned his gaze from Adam to search out Little Joe.

Two more boys stood to either side of Joe, though Ben was grateful to see he had risen to his feet. He was injured, yes, but not desperately so. Joe’s left hand was clutched around his right arm, just above the elbow and beneath the arrow’s shaft. With the arrowhead still embedded in his flesh, blood was draining slowly from the wound and had not yet reached his fingers.

For an instant, Ben met his youngest son’s gaze. He hoped Joe could read the apology Ben couldn’t voice. He should have trusted in Joe’s instincts. He should have encouraged Joe to trust in them himself. But Joe’s eyes seemed to hold an apology of their own, an apology he owed to no one at all. Ben shook his head in an effort to say Joe had done nothing wrong, and then he turned away, looking finally to Paul.

Only one boy stood before Paul. The tallest and apparently oldest of the children, the boy could not have been more than thirteen, but there was something in his stance that made him seem far older, something that made the hatred in his eyes seem angrier, bolder than what Ben had seen in the others. This boy had no weapon at the ready, though he did hold a spear at his side, its butt-end planted on the ground, the point aimed toward the sky and rising above him by more than a foot.

“You,” the boy said to Paul, “work white man’s medicine?”

Paul nodded. “I am a doctor. That’s right.”

“You come.”

“Now, wait a minute.” Ben used the sternest voice he had, one that had always commanded respect from his sons. “You’re not taking him anywhere.”

When the boy looked at him with eyes that held neither respect nor fear, Ben found himself holding his breath.

“You all come,” the boy demanded.

“No,” Ben said, still hoping these boys would show that they were boys after all, and begin to falter when things did not go their way.

But that particular boy showed no signs of faltering. He tensed, his jaw bulging. He turned his attention slightly, just enough to catch the eye of the boys beside Joe. And then he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

An instant later, the boy to Joe’s right took hold of the arrow shaft in Joe’s arm.

“No!” Ben commanded. “Let the doctor remove it. Please.”

Ignoring him, the boy beside Joe began to twist the shaft slowly. He’d had no intent to pull it out.

“Stop!” Ben shouted as the hidden arrowhead dug deeper into Joe’s arm.

Fresh blood spilled to Joe’s taut hand, his fingers tightening their grip. But Joe said nothing. His own jaw bulging from the forceful way he was clenching his teeth, he made it clear he would not cry out. It was also clear he was in pain. His chest filled with air he could not dispel, and he leaned forward, his knees bending but not quite buckling. Not yet.

“Stop him!” Ben shouted again, this time directing the command to the boy with Paul, obviously the leader of the group.

“You all come,” the boy-leader repeated.

“Yes!” Ben hollered then. “Yes, we’ll come!”

The leader gave another small nod to the boy beside Joe. Even so, the boy hesitated before letting go.

Joe wavered, stumbling forward. He was panting now, unable to hold any breath at all.

“Just tell me why,” Ben said, feeling breathless himself.

But the leader turned away, saying nothing more

XxXxX

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