by Zane Grey
“Me,” he grunted, reaching for Pilchuck’s field-glass, without taking his fixed gaze from what held him. With both hands then he put the glass to his eyes.
“Ugh!” he exclaimed, instantly.
It was a moment of excitement and suspense for the watching men. Pilchuck restrained Starwell’s impatience. Tom felt a cold ripple run over his body, and then as the Indian said, “Comanches!” that ripple seemed suddenly to be strung with fire. He thought of Milly Fayre.
Bear Claws held the glass immovable, with stiff hand, while he stepped from behind it, and drew Pilchuck to the exact spot where he had stood. His long-reaching arm seemed grotesque while his body moved guardedly. He was endeavoring to keep the glass leveled at the exact spot that had held him.
Pilchuck fastened hard down on the glass, that wavered slightly and then gradually became still. To the watching men he evidently was an eternity. But at last he spoke: “By thunder! he’s right. I can just make out . . . Indians on trail — goin’ down — head of that canyon all these rock draws run into. . . . Starwell, take a look. . . . Hold there, over that first splinter of cliff, in a line with the high red bluff — an’ search at its base.”
Other glasses were now in use and more than one of the hunters caught a glimpse of the Comanches before they disappeared.
A council was held right there. The distance was approximately ten miles, yet incredibly the Osage Indian had seen something to make him take the field-glass and verify his wonderful keenness of vision. The Mexican scout knew the topography of the rough rock waste and guaranteed to place Pilchuck’s force within striking distance of the Comanches by dawn next day.
Thereupon the hunters retraced their steps from that high point and returned to camp. Pilchuck took the scouts to search for a well-hidden pocket or head of a box canyon where wagons and horses not needed could be concealed to advantage and protected by a small number of men. This was found, very fortunately, in the direction of the Indian encampment, and several miles closer. The move was made expeditiously before dark.
“Reckon this is pretty good,” said Pilchuck, with satisfaction. “We’re far enough away to be missed by any scout they send out to circle their camp. That’s an old Indian trick — to ride a circle round a hidin’ place, thus crossin’ any trail of men sneakin’ close. It hardly seems possible we can surprise a bunch of Staked Plain Comanches, but the chance shore looks good.”
In the darkest hour before dawn forty grim men rode out of camp behind the Mexican and Pilchuck.
Tom Doan rode next to Bear Claws, the fifth of that cavalcade, and following him came Spades Harkaway. No one spoke. The hoofs of the horses gave forth only dull, sodden sounds, inaudible at little distance. There was an opaque misshapen moon, orange in color, hanging low over the uneven plain. The morning star, white, luminous, like a marvelous beacon, stood high above the blanching velvet of the eastern sky.
They traveled at walk or trot, according to the nature of the ground, until the moon went down and all the stars had paled, except the great one in the east. This, too, soon grew wan. The gray of dawn was at hand. Dismounting in the lee of a low ledge, where brush grew thick and the horses could be tied, Pilchuck left two men on guard and led the others on foot behind the noiseless Mexican.
In less than a quarter of a mile the Mexican whispered something and slipped to his hands’ and knees. Pilchuck and his followers, two and three abreast, kept close to his heels. The fact that the Mexican crept on very slowly and made absolutely no sound had the effect of constraining those behind him to proceed as stealthily. This wrought upon the nerves of the men.
Tom Doan had never experienced such suspense. Just ahead of him lay the unknown ground never seen by him or any of his white comrades, and it held, no one knew how close, a peril soon to be encountered.
The dawn was growing lighter and rows of rocks ahead could be distinguished. The ground began to slope. Beyond what seemed a gray space, probably a canyon, rose a dim vague bulk, uneven and woolly. Soon it showed to be canyon slope with brush on the rim.
Tom, finding that he often rustled the weeds or scraped on the hard ground, devoted himself to using his eyes as well as muscles to help him crawl silently. Thus it was that he did not look up until Pilchuck’s low “Hist!” halted everybody.
Then Tom saw with starting eyes a deep bend in a wonderful gully where on a green level of some acres in extent were a large number of Indian tepees. A stream wound through the middle of this oval and its low rush and gurgle were the only sounds to accentuate the quiet of the morning. Hundreds of Indian ponies were grazing, standing, or lying down all over this meadow-like level. Not an Indian appeared in sight. But as the light was still gray and dim there could not be any certainty as to that.
Pilchuck raised himself to peer over a rock, and he studied the lay of the encampment, the narrow gateways of canyon above and below, and the approaches from the slope on his side. Then he slipped back to face the line of crouching men.
“By holdin’ high we’re in range right here,” he whispered, tensely. “Starwell, take ten men an’ crawl back a little, then round an’ down to a point even with where this canyon narrows below. Harkaway, you take ten men an’ go above, an’ slip down same way. Go slow. Don’t make noise. Don’t stand up. We can then see each other’s positions an’ command all but the far side of this canyon. That’s a big camp — there’s two hundred Indians, more if they have their families. An’ I reckon they have. Now Indians always fight harder under such conditions. We’re in for a hell of a fight. But don’t intentionally shoot squaws an’ kids. That’s all.”
With only the slightest rustle and scrape, and deep intake of breath, the two detachments under Starwell and Harkaway crept back among the stones out of sight. Then absolute silence once more reigned.
Pilchuck’s men lay flat, some of them, more favorably located than others, peering from behind stones. No one spoke. They all waited. Meanwhile the gray dawn broadened to daylight.
“Ugh!” grunted Bear Claws, deep in his throat. His sinewy hand gripped Tom’s shoulder.
Tom raised his head a couple of inches and he espied a tall Indian standing before a tepee, facing the east, where faint streaks of pink and rose heralded the sunrise. Tom felt a violent start jerk over his whole body. It was a hot burst of blood. This very Comanche might have been one of the murderers of Hudnall or, just as much a possibility, one of the despoilers of Jett’s camp, from which Milly Fayre had disappeared. That terrible loss seemed to Tom far back in the past, lengthened, changed by suffering. It was nothing less than hate with which Tom watched that statuesque Indian.
Presently another Indian brave appeared, and another, then several squaws, and in a comparatively short time the camp became active. Columns of blue smoke arose lazily on the still air. The ponies began to move about.
What an endless period it seemed to Tom before Harkaway and Starwell got into their positions! Tom wondered if Pilchuck would wait much longer. His blood beat thick at his temples; his throat was dry; and a dimness of eye bothered him every few seconds.
“Ugh!” exclaimed Bear Claws, and this time he touched Pilchuck, directing him toward a certain point in the encampment.
At that juncture there pealed out a singularly penetrating yell, most startling in its suddenness and nerve-racking with its terrible long-drawn and sustained wildness.
“Comanche war-cry!” hissed Pilchuck. “Some buck has glimpsed our men below. Wait! We want the shootin’ to begin below an’ above. Then mebbe the Indians will run this way.”
Scarcely had the scout ceased his rapid whisper when a Sharps rifle awoke the sleeping echoes. It came from Starwell’s detachment below.
In an instant the Indian camp became a scene of wild rush and shrill cry, above which pealed sharp quick shouts — the voice of authority. A heavy volley from Starwell’s men was signal for Harkaway’s to open up. The puffs of white smoke over the stone betrayed the whereabouts of both detachments. A rattle of Winchesters
from the camp told how speedily many of the Indians had gotten into action.
Despite Pilchuck’s orders, some of his men began to fire.
“All right, if you can’t wait. But shoot high,” he shouted.
Twenty Creedmoors thundered in unison from that rocky slope. It seemed to Tom then that hell had indeed broken loose. He had aimed and shot at a running brave. What strange fierceness he felt! His hands shook to spoil his aim and his face streamed with cold sweat. All the men were loading and firing, and he was in the midst of a cracking din. Yet above it all rose a weird piercing sound — the war-cry of the Comanches. Tom thought, as he shuddered under it, that he understood now why hunters had talked of this most hideous and infamous of all Indian yells.
In a few moments the first blending roar of guns and yells broke, and there intervened a less consistent din. Pandemonium reigned down in that encampment, yet there must have been many crafty Indians. Already the front line of tepees was in flames, sending up streaks of smoke, behind which the women and children were dimly seen running for the opposite slope. A number of frightened mustangs were racing with flying manes and tails, up and down the canyon, but the majority appeared to be under control of the Indians and coralled at the widest point. Soon many braves, women and children, dragging packs and horses, were seen through or round the smoke on the opposite slope.
The Comanche braves below then lived up to their reputation as the most daring and wonderful horsemen of the plains. To draw the fire of the hunters numbers of them, half naked demons, yelling, with rifles in hands, rode their mustangs bareback, with magnificent affront and tremendous speed, straight at the gateway of the canyon. They ran a gauntlet of leaden hail.
Tom saw braves pitch headlong to the earth. He saw mustangs plunge and throw their riders far. And he also saw Indians ride fleet as the storm-winds under the volleys from the slope, to escape down the canyon.
No sooner had one bunch of rider braves attempted this than another drove their mustangs pell-mell at the openings. They favored the lower gate, beneath Starwell’s detachment, being quick to catch some little advantage there. The foremost of four Indians, a lean wild brave, magnificently mounted, made such a wonderful target with his defiance and horsemanship that he drew practically all the fire. He rode to his death, but his three companions flashed through the gateway in safety.
“Hold men! Hold!” yelled Pilchuck, suddenly at this juncture. “Load up an’ wait. We’re in for a charge or a trick.”
Tom Doan drew a deep breath, as if he were stifling. His sweaty powder-begrimed hands fumbled at the hot breech of his Creedmoor. How many times had he fired? He did not know, nor could he tell whether or not he had shot an Indian.
Following with sharp gaze where the scout pointed, Tom saw through smoke and heat the little puffs of white, all along behind the burning front line of tepees. There were many braves lying flat, behind stones, trees, camp duffle, everything that would hide a man. Bullets whistled over Tom’s head and spanged from the rocks on each side of him.
“Watch that bunch of horses!” called Pilchuck, warningly. “There’s fifty if there’s one. Reckon we’ve bit off more’n we can chew.”
Dimly through the now thinning smoke Tom could see the bunch of riders designated by Pilchuck. They were planning some audacious break like that of the braves who had sacrificed themselves to help their families to escape. This would be different, manifestly, for all the women and children, and the young braves with them, had disappeared over the far slope. It was war now.
“Jude, they’re too smart to charge us,” said a grizzled old hunter. “I’ll swear thet bunch is aimin’ to make a break to git by an’ above us.”
“Wal, if they do we’ll be in a hell of a pickle,” replied the scout. “I’ll ask Bear Claws what he makes of it.”
The Osage readily replied, “No weyno,” which Tom interpreted as being anything but good for the hunters.
The Mexican urged Pilchuck to work back to higher ground, but the scout grimly shook his head.
Suddenly with remarkable swiftness the compact bunch of Indian horsemen disintegrated, and seemed to spill both to right and left.
“What the hell!” muttered Pilchuck.
One line of Comanche riders swerved below the camp, the other above, and they rode strung out in single file, going in opposite directions. Starwell and Harkaway reserved their fire, expecting some trick. When halfway to each gate the leader of each string wheeled at right angles to head straight for the slope.
“By God! they’re goin’ between us!” ejaculated Pilchuck. “Men, we’ve shore got to stick now an’ fight for our lives.”
At two hundred yards these incomparable riders were as hard to hit with bullets as birds on the wing. Starwell’s detachment began to shoot and Harkaway’s followed suit. Their guns were drowned in the dreadful war-cry of the Comanches. It seemed wilder, more piercing now, closer, a united sound, filling the ears, horrid yet not discordant, full of death, but for all that a magnificent blending of human voices. It was the cry of a wild tribe for life.
It lifted Tom’s hair stiff on his head. He watched with staring eyes. How those mustangs leaped! They crossed the open level below, the danger zone of leaden hail, without a break in their speeding line. When they reached the base of the slope they were perked to their haunches, and in a flash each one was riderless. The Comanches had taken to the rocks.
“Ahuh! I reckoned so,” growled Pilchuck. “Pretty slick, if I do say it. Men, we’ve got crawlin’ snakes to deal with now. You shore have to look sharp.”
This sudden maneuver had the same effect upon the Starwell and Harkaway detachments as it had on Pilchuck’s. It almost turned the tables on the white men. How grave it was perhaps only the experienced plainsmen realized. They all reserved their fire, manifestly directing attention to his new and hidden peril. The Comanches left in camp, a considerable number, redoubled their shots.
“Men, reckon it ain’t time yet to say every one for himself,” declared Pilchuck. “But we’ve shore got to crawl up to the level. Spread out, an’ crawl flat on your bellies, an’ keep rocks behind you.”
Thus began a retreat, fraught with great risk. Bullets from the Winchesters spanged off the rocks, puffing white powder dust into the air. And these bullets came from the rear. The Comanches on each side had vanished like lizards into the maze of bowlders. But every hunter realized these Indians were creeping, crawling, worming their way to places of advantage, keeping out of sight with the cunning natural to them.
Tom essayed to keep up with Bear Claws, but this was impossible by crawling. The Osage wriggled like a snake. Pilchuck, too, covered ground remarkably for a large man. Others crawled fast or slowly, according to their abilities. Thus the detachment, which had heretofore kept together, gradually disintegrated.
It had been a short two hundred yards from the top of this slope to the position the hunters had abandoned. Crawling back seemed interminable and insurmountable to Tom. Yet he saw how imperative it was to get there.
Some one was close behind Tom, crawling laboriously, panting heavily. It was Ory Tacks. As he was fat and round, the exertion was almost beyond his endurance and the risks were great. Tom had himself to think of, yet he wondered if he should not help Ory. Roberts crawled a little to Tom’s left. He too was slow. An old white-haired buffalo-hunter named Calkins had taken Pilchuck’s place on Tom’s right. The others were above, fast wriggling out of sight.
A bullet zipped off a stone close to Tom and sang into the air. It had come from another direction. Another bullet, striking in front of him, scattered dust and gravel in his face. Then bullets hissed low down, just over the rocks. The Comanches were not yet above the hunters. Calkins called low for those back of him to hurry, that the word had been passed back from Pilchuck.
Tom was crawling as flat as a flounder, dragging a heavy gun. He could not make faster time. He was burning with sweat, yet cold as ice, and the crack of Winchesters had the discordance of a n
ightmare.
“Doan,” called Roberts, sharply. “The fellow behind you’s been hit.”
Tom peered around. Ory Tacks lay with face down. His fat body was quivering.
“Ory! Ory! Are you hit?” flashed Tom.
“I should smile,” he groaned, lifting a pale face. His old slouch hat was still in place and a tuft of tow-colored hair stuck out through a hole. “Never mind — me.”
“Roberts, come help me,” called Tom, and began to back down toward Ory. Roberts did likewise, and they both reached the young man about the same time.
“Much obliged to see you,” said Ory, gratefully, as they took hold of his arms, one on each side.
Up to that moment Tom had been mostly stultified by emotion utterly new to him. It had been close to panic, for he had found himself hard put to it to keep from leaping up to run. But something in connection with Ory’s misfortune strung Tom suddenly and acutely to another mood. Grim realization and anger drove away his fear.
“Drag him; he cain’t help himself,” panted Roberts.
Then began what Tom felt to be the most heart-breaking labor imaginable. They had to crawl and drag the wounded Ory up hill. Tom locked his left arm under Ory’s, and dragging his rifle in his right hand he jerked and hunched himself along. Bullets now began to whistle and patter from the other side, signifying that the Comanches to the right had located the crawling hunters. Suddenly above Tom boomed a heavy Creedmoor — then two booms followed in succession.
“Good! — It was — aboot time,” panted Roberts.
Tom felt the coldness leave his marrow for good. It was fight now. Pilchuck, Bear Claws, the Mexican, and some of the old plainsmen had reached the top of the slope and had opened on the Comanches. This spurred him, if not to greater effort, which was impossible, at least to dogged and unquenchable endurance. Roberts whistled through his nose; his lean face was bathed with sweat. Ory Tacks struggled bravely to help himself along, though it was plain his agony was tremendous.
The slope grew less steep and more thickly strewn with large rocks. Tom heard no more bullets whiz up from direction of the encampment. They came from both sides, and the reports of Winchesters, sharp and rattling above the Creedmoors, covered a wide half circle. Farther away the guns of the Starwell and Harkaway forces rang out steadily, if not often. It had become a hot battle and the men were no longer shooting at puffs of white smoke.