Blood at Bear Lake by Gary Franklin

that covered the bows over the bed of the Wickershams’ wagon.

27
    THE FARTHER EAST they went, ever closer to the Green River that he remembered so fondly from the fur-trapping days of his youth, the closer they got to Paiute country. In the old days, he and the boys referred to the Paiutes as Digger Indians.
    The Diggers were known as the poorest of all the tribes. Man, woman, or child, they went naked except for the dust and filth that covered them. The problem with the Diggers was that while they were still poor, sometime in the last twenty years or so the bastards had gotten some firearms in hand, most of them stolen from the many wagons that passed through on their way to California.
    It turned out that the Diggers were mean and sneaky sons of bitches once they had better weapons than the sticks they used to hunt with. Nowadays, they thought it grand sport to rob and kill any white men they could lull into inattentiveness with their begging and bowing.
    Joe knew that, knew it good and well, and there was no way he would have let a pack of Diggers close to his odd little caravan of one wagon and a pack mule.
    He was, dammit, lulled into inattentiveness, though. Not by any display of innocence staged by the Diggers. He became complacent because on the eighth day, swinging south of the salt desert and inland salt sea, they finally reached civilization.
    Almost.
    They were within three miles of the Mormon settlement, he judged, Joe riding well out in front of Mrs. Coyle and her plodding oxen, and he could as good as taste the fresh meat and fruit pies he fully intended to indulge in once they got there. One more ridge to cross, maybe two, and they would be there.
    His mouth was watering in anticipation of the fried chicken and oven-baked biscuits he knew would be available in the settlement. It was all he could do to keep from trying to hurry the wagon along. He would have, too, had Mrs. Coyle’s animals been in better shape.
    As it was, they were in bad need of some decent feed and a long rest. One ox in particular worried him. He suspected the animal might never recover from what it had been through, and probably should be butchered. It would be too tough for steak, but would still be useful for stew meat or for jerky.
    Steaks. Beef sizzling over the fire. Thick and juicy slabs of red meat that . . .
    Joe was shaken out of his reverie by an ear-shattering whoop from his right and another from the far side of Brenda Coyle’s wagon.
    Half a dozen arrows rose out of the scrubby brush that a civilized man would not think thick enough to hide a jackrabbit, much less a fully grown Digger Indian.
    At least one arrow hit one of Mrs. Coyle’s oxen— naturally, the one hit was one of the healthier animals, Joe immediately grumbled to himself—and the beast jerked its head, rolling its eyes and bawling in pain.
    The ox stumbled and went to its knees, nailing the wagon in place, with no possibility that Mrs. Coyle might be able to run away from the ambush.
    Joe was not so encumbered. He was riding his horse, the mule being tethered to the tailgate of the wagon.
    He was free to run, which under normal circumstances would have been the sensible thing to do.
    But, dammit, he could not throw the spurs to the Palouse and leave a defenseless woman behind for the Diggers to rape and murder, sensible or not.
    He snatched the head of the Palouse around and raced back to the wagon, pulling the Spencer carbine from its saddle boot as he did so.

28
    JOE HEARD THE Palouse grunt. A moment later, it went to its knees from a full run, spilling him over its head. He hit the ground rolling and came up onto hands and knees, somehow still clinging to the Spencer that was locked in his grip.
    Scuttling like a crab—like one damned quick-moving crab—he scrambled the remaining distance to the heavy wagon.
    â€œFall back, Brenda. Throw yourself over the seat into the wagon bed and hunker down out of the way of them