Stand Up and Die

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  When the herd loped along casually, without one of the animals challenging the new leaders of the bunch, the Comanche kid sang out boisterously, proudly. If the kid had been on his vision quest, maybe he had found it with Matt McCulloch’s help. Yeah, the horseman thought, they were partners. In the truest sense. They had helped each other, saved each other’s lives, and had a herd of great-looking animals to show for it . . . providing they could get them away from the Davis Mountains, Comanches or Apaches or Kiowas, or even scalp hunters. It was a long way to McCulloch’s ranch, but the black and white pinto was leading the way behind the kid riding point and McCulloch on his black, bringing up the rear.

  He saw the smoke again, of course, puffs rising from the mountains. Wooden Arm must have seen the signals, too, but he paid no attention. He focused on the mustangs—the mustangs he co-owned with Matt McCulloch.

  With a kid like that, McCulloch figured he had better than an even-money chance of making it out of the mountains and across the miles to Purgatory City alive.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  From the top of the mesa, mounted on his fine pinto horse of brown and white, Broken Buffalo Horn frowned at the scene below. His Comanche friend, Lost His Thumb, lowered the binoculars he had taken off a dead bluecoat four years ago. He still wore the blue kepi, doctored with eagle feathers, ribbons, and the scalp of the white-eyed soldier who had worn the cap and carried the see-far glasses. Frowning at the older warrior, Lost His Thumb said, “Now we know why your son did not respond to our signals.”

  The buffalo headdress was heavy on Broken Buffalo Horn’s head, but not as heavy as his heart. The shirtless Comanche nodded briefly, but did not look away from the scene below.

  By his best count, a cruel Texan had captured about forty or so mustangs from the mountains, and was driving them north toward the settlements in the dry country near the Pecos River to the west. Those horses would give a man like Broken Buffalo Horn more power than he already had in the camps in the Staked Plains of Comanchería. But the cruel Texan had something else, something more valuable to the holy man. He had Broken Buffalo Horn’s only son.

  Oh, the holy man had six other children spread among his four wives, but those were all girls. And what good was a girl to a Comanche man of medicine, a man of vision? His son had been sent out on his vision quest two weeks ago. When he had not returned to the village that had moved down south for the winter, Broken Buffalo Horn, Lost His Thumb, and Killed A Skunk had ridden out of the village, while the others—including Broken Buffalo Horn’s wives, daughters, and one granddaughter—prepared to return to the Staked Plains to find shelter in the canyons that cut through the country of Comanche medicine. To a place protected from the bluecoats, the spotted death, and the more and more white travelers who dared cross what once had been territory owned and ruled and settled by only the Comanches and their allies.

  “What has this white man done to your son’s left arm?” Killed A Skunk asked.

  “It is a way to keep him a prisoner.” Broken Buffalo Horn spoke with finality, as though he knew, when in fact he had no idea what had happened to his son, a boy who had barely seen thirteen winters. Nor did he understand why his son seemed to be helping the one white man. And what power must a white man like this one have to turn a Comanche teen’s son into a tree!

  A horse bolted from the trotting herd, and the boy taken prisoner by the hated Texan turned his horse quickly and with only one hand holding the reins, galloped, pivoted, twisted, and intercepted the young colt. Within moments, the boy had managed to send the horse back into the herd while the white man—the one white man—rode at the rear, keeping the mustangs moving, not even offering to help.

  But these Texans were lazy men.

  Killed A Skunk whistled. Your son rides like he is part of a horse.”

  “With only one arm,” Lost His Thumb said, his own head bobbing with admiration.

  That, at least, made Broken Buffalo Horn smile briefly.

  After putting the see-far glasses into the leather container behind his Comanche saddle, Lost His Thumb said, “We can ride down easily and kill this Texan. Take his horses. Return to our camp. They will sing songs about us.”

  “And about your son,” added Killed A Skunk.

  “We would have many horses,” Lost His Thumb said, then quickly added, “You will have many horses. And we will have whatever you think is right for us to have.”

  “We will also have another scalp. There will be one less white man for us to kill.” Killed A Skunk waited for Broken Buffalo Horn’s response.

  “Not yet,” he said at last. If this white man had the power to turn a Comanche boy’s arm into a tree branch, what other magic might he hold? Even if his power vanished, the white man, by his dress, was Texan, and Texans had killed many Comanches. It would be too easy, since the Texan had a gun and the only son of Broken Buffalo Horn had one good hand, and another arm turned into wood, for the Texan to kill Broken Buffalo Horn’s son. And Broken Buffalo Horn was nearing his seventieth summer. He knew he likely would never be able to have another son. Just weakling daughters. That thought made him spit.

  “No,” he said, and nodded at the finality of his decision and his wisdom. “We will follow this powerful Texan with much magic. Perhaps we will learn where he gains this power. Imagine if we could turn all of the Texans, all of the bluecoats, all of the Mexicans, and white-eyed fools who cross Comanchería into trees.”

  His friends nodded at the old man’s wisdom.

  “We would never be cold in winter with all the wood to burn,” Killed A Skunk said.

  “And have poles for our teepees without having to go into the hills or along the riverbanks,” Lost His Thumb added.

  “And,” Broken Buffalo Horn said, “This man is taking the mustangs to the north and west. Let us follow him at a distance, and let him do the hard work, him and my son who appears to be doing most of the work.”

  “Because he is Comanche,” Lost His Thumb said. “He knows how to work, unlike this lazy, though very powerful, Texan.”

  Broken Buffalo Horn nodded his approval although he did not care much for the interruption. He continued. “They are taking the herd of fine ponies northward. That is closer to our own camp for the spring and summer. So when we kill the Texan and free our son, take the scalp and all of those fine ponies, we will not have as far to drive them.”

  It was the right decision. Broken Buffalo Horn knew this.

  He pointed to the dead spines of a cactus and dried weeds that would burn. “Light a fire, my friend, Lost His Thumb,” the medicine man ordered. “We must let my son know we are here, that we see him. That we follow him, that we will come—or we will die—and we will rescue him from this powerful enemy. We will find a way to make his arm a Comanche arm again. One not like a piñon branch.”

  “Unless it is a juniper,” Killed A Skunk said.

  Lost His Thumb almost laughed, but the way the medicine man glared at Killed A Skunk told Lost His Thumb he should show respect and remain quiet. He gathered the tinder and wood, broke the dead cactus spine into manageable kindling, and used the iron and flint to start the flame. Killed A Skunk rode around the area on his yellow horse, never dismounting for he was a Comanche. Leaning out of the saddle, he picked up wood that would work for the signal fire.

  Broken Buffalo Horn sat on the back of his horse and watched the riders and the horses stretch into a long line. Eventually, he removed his buffalo headdress, wiped the sweat off his forehead, then looked down at the dust-covered, heavy headdress with the left horn broken off. It had been broken off by the powerful bullet from one of the heavy rifles favored by the white men who killed buffalo. He’d changed his name from Brave Deer to Broken Buffalo Horn, which made him even more powerful.

  Lost His Thumb earned his name after drinking too much of the white man’s firewater and then playing with a white man’s trap for beaver. He could have changed his name to Killed A Bluecoat, or Sees-Far-With-Bluecoat-Glasses, but he had
become used to having four fingers on his left hand. He had killed that bluecoat by himself, charging when no one else would, armed with only tomahawk and knife, and the man had shot with his long gun, but missed. Lost His Thumb was upon him, and seeing his bravery and what he did to the man whose scalp he took, turned the other bluecoats into women. They fled across the creek and did not stop raising dust until they were back in their fort.

  Killed A Skunk wasn’t the most respected names in the village, but the skunk he had killed had been rabid, and would have wreaked death and madness and destruction on the camp had he not had the courage to rush up to the deadly, diseased, stinking animal and put a lance through its body. Younger, more accomplished warriors had not dared approach such an animal. Killed A Skunk’s name might make Kiowas and Comancheros laugh, but no one laughed in front of the warrior.

  Yes, Broken Buffalo Horn was a powerful man among all the Comanche villages. He had strong men of power, brave men, and good friends. Broken Buffalo Horn knew he needed such friends, such brave men, on the journey they were about to take. They would need even more strength and more power to free Broken Buffalo Horn’s son from the terrible Texan.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Jed Breen had given up seeing out of his left eye as long as blood continued to pour over his eyebrow and eye, a slow, oozing flow that seemed as thick as maple syrup. But, hell, with a long rifle, he usually closed his left eye before taking aim and squeezing the trigger. He rose up just low enough so he might not get his brains blown all the way to Austin but high enough so that he could see what the hell was happening on the Presidio-Purgatory City pike.

  “Señora,” Breen heard a man’s voice say, but he couldn’t make out the rest of the words, though he could figure things out once he got the lay of the land.

  The man on the buckskin gelding wore striped britches, a white cotton shirt, and colorful serape of orange, red, purple, white, and black stripes. Bandoliers of ammunition crisscrossed his chest. His sombrero was of the sugarloaf style with a fancy concho headband. His hair was black, greasy, stringy and hung well past his shoulders, and his mustache and goatee needed the scissors and talents of a tonsorial artist in a Kansas cattle town. His left eye was covered with a black patch. He held a big pistol, hammer cocked, at Charlotte Platte’s ample bosom.

  Breen could blow that bandit out of the saddle easily, but then he’d have to reload the Sharps. And two other bandits blocked the road. One of them held the reins to a fourth horse, but Breen saw no fourth man. That was troublesome. He slid down a few inches, no longer able to see the men, but listening to what the leader said, while mainly trying to hear something unnatural—the chime of a spur, the turning over of a stone, or the cocking of a weapon, the slipping of a knife from a scabbard, even a sneeze or some heavy breathing.

  Surely, the bandits, undoubtedly based on the other side of the Rio Grande, had made a hard ride north looking to waylay some travelers. They’d make their haul and hightail it for the Rio Grande at Presidio. They’d never make a move on anyone without someone covering their behinds. But, Breen had to figure out, where?

  The black-patched leader fired question after question, always speaking Spanish, at Charlotte Platte, who never answered. Maybe she didn’t understand the Mexican lingo. Maybe she just didn’t want to say a damn thing. Perhaps she was even too busy silently praying that the man whose head she had cut open, the man who she had almost run over with the wagon he had bought in Deep Flood, and the man who had promised to split the reward for that still-moaning Kruger brother might rescue her from that old fate worse than death. Breen figured that was exactly what those four bandits had in mind for Poison Platte.

  Breen’s problem was that some stupid, worthless, miserable idiot kept moaning, making it harder to figure out where the fourth man might be. The guttural-throated hombre with the black patch over his left eye spit out a slew of ungentlemanly curses and barked out an order to one of the other bandits. Breen only understood a few words, but he easily filled in the blanks of what had been ordered.

  “Tomás, go put a bullet in the head of that gringo before his wails drive me insane.”

  As Breen slid farther down the edge of the arroyo, the sweat dripping from his matted hair burned the deep cut in his forehead. His eyes began to tear from pain and the grit, dust, and heat. Clopping hooves neared, while the Mexican kept hitting the taciturn widowmaker with question after question.

  Moving over a few feet to his right, Breen sucked in a deep breath, which he held for a count of ten before letting it out slowly and silently, then peered over the arroyo’s rim. As he expected, the rider—a younger, thinner bandit in the white cotton outfit most Mexican peasants donned south of the border—focused on the writhing, moaning, idiot Otto Kruger, and did not even notice Breen’s head in the weeds. The rider carried an old-fashioned muzzle-loading musket in his left hand. His right held the reins to a palomino. He appeared to be riding straight up to Otto Kruger, where he would likely rein in, put the barrel of the old long gun on Kruger’s head, and blow the jasper’s brains out.

  That would bring the bandit into revolver range. The others to were too far away to hit with a short gun, and he could only take out one of t with a long gun. He would still have that tricky little problem of finding that fourth killer. His good eye moved away from the slowly approaching young bandit, and the savvy bounty hunter saw Providence was smiling down upon him one more time.

  Only God knew why.

  Wetting his lips, Breen wondered if the one eye he could see out of was playing a cruel joke on him. Ignoring the approaching rider, Breen focused on the two bandits by the wagon. The one with the eye patch began shouting, while the other man, potbellied with silver hair and a thick mustache the color of salt and pepper began laughing. That caused the leader to turn away from Charlotte Platte and berate the peon, who barked back with language meaning that he was not a man to be trifled with.

  Breen could care less about what kind of conversation the two men were having. What amazed him was how they lined up. In a perfect line. If they didn’t move, Breen reasoned one bullet, one shot, two dead men. That would definitely make the odds a little better, especially since the young fool with the long gun kept riding straight up to Otto Kruger.

  Breen lowered his head slowly, looked at the Sharps, and pulled back the hammer as slowly and as quietly as he could, trying to time the cocking of the big rifle with the slow clopping of the palomino’s hooves on the hard-packed road.

  Knowing the trickiest part came next,

  Breen rose slowly, hoping the grass and brush might conceal the long barrel of the Sharps, and that the sunlight wouldn’t reflect off the brass telescopic sight. He also had to hope that the two Mexicans by the wagon had not moved since he had slid back into the hole.

  He sighed with relief. They remained in perfect position.

  With his head tilted and the blood still flowing over his left eye, Breen closed the eye and looked through the telescope. He wet his lips, trying to remember everything he had learned about long-distance shooting, about shooting uphill, about breathing out and remaining calm before touching the trigger. About not worrying how hard a Sharps kicked.

  He couldn’t see the young Mexican with the muzzle-loading rifle. He just saw the back of the serape worn by the one-eyed leader.

  Breen exhaled. Waited. Stilled every nerve in his body. He touched the set trigger, and the click sounded like thunder in the desert.

  The palomino stopped, and it’s rider called out in Spanish, “Juan, where are you?”

  Breen couldn’t see that bandit, but he did spot the one-eyed monster begin to twist around in the saddle, just as Breen touched the second trigger on the Sharps.

  For more years than he could count, Breen had been shooting that weapon, and every time he pulled the trigger, he felt the bones and muscles in his right shoulder lose just a little bit more tissue and feeling. The big rifle roared like a mountain howitzer. White smoke blocked out everything he had
been looking at through the telescopic sight. He moved quickly to his right, pitched the heavy—and now hot—weapon onto the floor of the arroyo, and palmed the revolver.

  A bullet kicked up dirt above him, spraying gravel toward Otto Kruger and the young, slim Mexican with the long, antiquated musket, telling where Juan, the fourth of the bad men, had positioned himself—somewhere behind Breen and on the west side of the arroyo—but Juan would have to wait. The young killer from Mexico had abandoned his orders to kill Otto Kruger, brought the old rifle up, and spurred the palomino into a run—heading straight for Breen.

  Steadily, with patience instilled by years of surviving on the rugged Southwestern frontier, Breen cocked the hammer on his revolver and raised his arm straight at the rider, who was screaming in Spanish. Another bullet from the far side of the arroyo whined off a rock just over Breen’s head, and the Mexican on the palomino pulled the trigger of his old single-shot musket. Breen heard and felt the leaden ball as it sailed just past his left ear. Breen touched the trigger and leaped down to his right.

  Hitting the arroyo’s wall, Breen slid down, feeling the gravel and cactus bite into his back. The palomino galloped down the sandy ramp and took off at a high lope down the arroyo, its hooves pounding as it raised dust on its way toward Deep Flood. The saddle on the palomino’s back, Breen could see, was empty.

  Another bullet kicked sand into Breen’s left eye—or would have, if his eye had not been protected by thick, clotted blood and dirt. Breen snapped a shot, knowing that he shouldn’t have, but not wanting to be shot at without defending himself. He could not risk looking above the rim, seeing who he had hit, who he had wounded, who he had killed, or, God forbid, who he had missed. Not with Juan somewhere above him with a pretty good aim.