Blood at Bear Lake by Gary Franklin Page B

belief, at least the way he was given to understand it, a spirit could not join his dead tribesmen in the afterworld if his scalp was taken in this world. A man became truly dead if he gave up his scalp to an enemy. Joe did not know how true any of that was, but he did not intend to take any chances.
    He took a moment to rest his back, then stepped over the body of the scalpless Digger Indian and walked over to the next. This one, an emaciated youngster who could not have been more than sixteen or seventeen, was still breathing.
    The boy had a hole high in the chest. Bloody froth bubbled on the surface, suggesting he was shot through the lung. It was possible, just barely possible, that someone could recover from a wound like that. Joe had seen it happen.
    But not this time.
    Joe leaned down and took a grip on the kid’s hair to lift his upper body off the ground, then made two quick swipes with the bowie. The first slashed the boy’s throat completely through to the bone. The second added another scalp to Joe’s collection.
    Bastards thought they were going to kill him, did they? Well, he had another thought for them.
    Joe finished collecting the last scalp and walked back to the wagon to retrieve his Spencer carbine. He pulled the magazine tube out and dropped in seven fresh cartridges, then set the Spencer aside, reminding himself to get more from his pack. The pack and mule seemed to have survived the attack without harm at the back of the wagon. All the arrows had been directed forward, where the people and oxen were.
    â€œMiz Coyle. You can come out now. It’s safe. All the Injuns is accounted for.”
    Sighing, he walked over to the fallen Palouse horse. That animal had been the best horse he ever owned. Oh, he tended to think that about any good horse that he got hold of, but this time he really meant it. The Palouse had been getting a little long in the tooth, but—dammit—he liked that horse. And it had been his. He could feel the bile rising in the back of his throat as anger overtook him at the sight of the dead horse.
    If there had been any of those Diggers still alive, he would have killed them all over again. Bastards!
    There was nothing he could do to change it, though. He could only accept what was and forget about what might have been.
    Joe bent down again and unfastened his cinches, then struggled to pull his saddle free of the carcass.
    The Diggers’ arrows had killed all the livestock, but he was close enough to the little Mormon settlement that Joe figured he could walk over there to buy a horse and haze some oxen or mules back to drag the wagon the rest of the way in. He had to get the saddle off now, though, before the dead horse began to bloat and it became impossible to remove it without cutting the cinches.
    â€œMrs. Coyle,” he called again. “Everything is all right. You can climb down here, Miz Coyle. Be a good idea for you t’ do that. I have t’ walk over to that town to get fresh animals, and I wouldn’t want t’ leave you alone out here. There might be some more Injuns nearby. I wouldn’t want t’ leave you undefended while I go for the animals.”
    He waited a moment, but heard nothing from inside the wagon.
    Joe set the saddle down and quickly stripped the bridle from the horse. Damn shame, though. That had been a mighty fine animal.
    â€œMiz Coyle. Are you all right, ma’am?”
    Joe stepped onto a wheel spoke and from that into the driving box. As he did so, he was thinking what a hell of a time he would have trying to wrestle the yokes and riggings from those dead oxen. Possibly, he should bring someone from town to help him with that.
    Mrs. Coyle was crouched on the floor of her wagon, wedged in between some crates and boxes.
    â€œMrs. Coyle? Ma’am?”
    Joe crawled over the back of the seat and slipped beneath the canvas wagon sheet. It took a moment for his vision to adjust to the dim light beneath