Roy Bean's Gold Read Online Free

low on good water, and, according to Kirker, the Zuñi had a water hole famous for its sweetness.
    â€œIndians are Indians,” I mentioned, grinning, “but it’s funny we never saw any all this while. Old Fancher was positive we’d bump headlong into dozens.”
    I was getting ready to chaff Kirker about highway robbers when a small, tawny puff of dust, hovering southward over the sloping mesas and cholla patches, began to swell and drift toward us.
    â€œIndians only let you see ’em when they want you to,” Kirker grunted, then stiffened in his saddle, looking south. “And a dollar to a bent peso we got some comin’ this way right now. White men don’t lambaste horses like that. got more sense.”
    â€œWhat do we do, make a run for Zuñi Jack’s or stay and powwow?”
    That cloud was getting mighty close as it swayed along, golden yellow under the blazing sun. Then we saw them. Five horsemen galloped toward us, rushing streaks of fluttering feathers and pounding hoofs, darting across the mesa grasses like a swooping flock of gaudy birds. War crests and feathered lances glimmered over feathered shields of painted bull’s hide. Naked except for a red clout flanked by two antelope tails, the leader rode up and lifted his long lance at us. A pair of his fellow riders held up their hands, palms out, staring across at us with slitted, glittering eyes.
    â€œApache?”
    â€œComanche. And I don’t know what they’re doin’ this far north,” Kirker muttered out of the side of his mouth. “Don’t go to makin’ any quick moves, and let’s see if one of ’em can parley.” He raised his own hand, palm out, and tried both sign language and Apache. The leader shook his red-feathered topknot like a wary hawk, then answered Jeff in Apache lingo.
    Presently Kirker and the chief pushed their horses forward and shook hands. Then the Comanche offered his hand to me and I took it, mighty easy-like.
    â€œThis here’s a war party on the scout for Navajos or Zuñis. Seems some of the Arizona Indians got too far south to suit these Comanches,” Jeff translated the mixture of Apache and broken Spanish the chief used to me. “The Comanches got their own ideas of territory and this one says the Indians up this way are jest too big for their clouts. and he and his bunch are out to cut some down to size.”
    The Comanches kicked their spotted, paint-daubed ponies around us, growling like a pack of half-friendly dogs. The leader nodded his head and made motions with his wicked-looking lance.
    â€œWants to smoke the pipe with us. They ain’t on no warpath with the white man right now,” reported Jeff, “but keep your eyes wide and that cannon of yours ready, just in case.”
    We all dismounted, staked out our mounts, along with the pack mule, in the shade of a small stand of scrawny pines, and proceeded to smoke the pipe with those wild-eyed Indians. It went off pretty well until Jeff made the mistake of fetching out our other bottle.
    Those Comanches grinned from ear to painted ear as that whiskey went around the circle. And each time the bottle circulated, the Indians grew more friendly, patting us on the back and nodding their plumes until it seemed we were squatting in the midst of a flock of crazy, glare-eyed hawks.
    And just like any bunch of drunks, those Comanches got to bragging about how many coup they’d counted, and the number of scalps taken—including no small amount of Mexicans. They didn’t mention whites, but I suppose they were just being polite. The chief, who was called Big Wolf, finally had to break down and show off his medicine bundle, tugging out a knotted linen rag from under his antelope-tail flap.
    He untied the small parcel and shoved the contents across at us. It held, among other things, a dry, smoke-cured hand of a white woman. The hand was small and shapely, with a plain