Apache Rampage

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Apache Rampage Page 12

by J. T. Edson


  This would be a great day for him, a day for doing deeds long to be boasted of in the wickiups. That he was sure of.

  He wriggled on faster than the other braves and drawing ahead of them, his head full of thoughts of how he would count many a coup this day.

  Fifty yards from the pits the boy came to a halt, the whole of the creeping line freezing down like statues, hugging the earth and lying without a move. The boy watched the white-eye stand up in one of the foolish holes, an urge to kill came over the young Apache. It would be something for his father to sing over, at the great victory feast that night, how his son, in his first fight, killed the first white-eye. With that thought in mind, forgetting every order Lobo Colorado gave him, the youngest brought up his rifle and fired.

  In the pits, the light getting better by the minute, there was a vague uneasy feeling that they’d been wasting their time. Haslett grunted his disgust and stood erect to try and get a better view around him. The storekeeper could see nothing and turned to say:

  ‘There’s nothing out there. I told you—!’

  The rifle bullet ripped Millet’s hat from his head, sending it spinning to one side. With a howl of fear Millet went back into the hole like a gopher hunting cover. Even as he dropped every Apache came up, screaming out their wild war yells, and charged.

  The men in the pits were taken completely by surprise and that very surprise saved them from being trampled under in that first rush. Every man held a loaded, cocked rifle, finger on trigger. In a purely involuntary move every finger tightened, and the resulting volley sounded like a crack from a well-trained troop of cavalry. What it lacked in accuracy the volley made up in sound. Five Apaches went rolling in the dust, and the rest hesitated. Ellwood tried to press his advantage by controlled volley firing, but there was no controlling those scared men in the pits. The only good thing was that each of them, in his panic, kept up a rapid, if mostly wild, fire. The sheer volume of fire brought the Apache attack to a halt, sending the warriors dropping flat to the ground. The attacking party just seemed to disappear, fading down into the soil and going out of sight.

  Beyond the rim Lobo Colorado heard the first shot, then the roaring volley, followed by the rapid crash of fire. The chief did not own and would not have known how to use a watch, but he was a fair judge of time. When he heard the first shot he knew something was bad wrong. One shot must mean that one of his men had been seen and the surprise attack brought up short.

  Jumping his big horse to the head of the slope Lobo Colorado looked down and saw his men going into the ground. It was fast getting light now, and he could see all that happened below. He knew he must bring his other force in before he wanted to. Swinging around on his horse’s back he let out a wild, ringing war yell which brought the mounted Apaches pouring forward, up slope, on to the stage trail, and down towards the rifle pits.

  When Ellwood’s men saw the Apaches hit the ground and start back up the slope they thought things were over. They heard the wild yell which started the foot Apaches moving back and began to cheer. Haslett lifted his face from the ground where he’d kept it since nearly getting shot, looked at Millet and asked what was happening.

  ‘We’ve got ‘em licked!’ Millet howled in delight. ‘We’ve licked ‘em—!’

  The words came to an abrupt end, and Millet’s fat face lost all the florid colour it had originally showed, his eyes bulged out at what he saw. A mass of mounted Apaches came into view on the stage trail, and with a wild ringing roar of war-shouts sent their horses hurling forward.

  Half a second ahead of the others, Millet saw what the miners knew all along. The rifle pits were a death trap when faced with the onrush of cavalry. He knew they had no chance. That was when Millet lost his head. In a wild panic he threw aside his rifle, clawed out of the hole and ran for it. Haslett, as befitting a leading citizen of the town, was next to go, dropping his Winchester and making good time in his dash for town. The panic was infectious, man after man leapt from the pits and ran for the safety of the town.

  Ellwood saw his men running and with the four who remained firm tried to fight a rearguard action. They fired fast, and their fire held back the braves for a few vital seconds, allowing them to start backing off for the town.

  In the town, even as the first shot was fired, the miners were ready. They split into four parties, Walapai with three men to hold the rear wall of the church. Ike took three men to defend the left flank of the town, four more going to the right. Zeke, with the other four headed as fast as they could along Church Street to give what help they could to the men in the rifle pits. By the time they were passing the last building, they heard the steady crash of shots all round the town and knew the big attack was on.

  Zeke brought his men to a halt by the final building of the town, their rifle fire directed with accuracy on the attacking braves. Millet raced by them, sprinting along at a speed which was surprising in one of his bulk. Behind him came the other men, running with the fear of death on them, only a few had even brought their weapons with them.

  It was only the arrival and straight shooting of Zeke’s party which saved Ellwood’s life. His backers were all down, and he fought a desperate covering action to try and hold back the charging Apaches. The rapid fire of five men who could lay a rifle and call down their shots brought confusion to the attackers, but it was only a temporary confusion. Zeke and his men all knew it. Behind them all was confusion and pandemonium as women, children and such men who were not in the rifle pits streamed from their homes. There was a rush for the church, a few, a very few, men stayed on to help the miners, or came to back up Zeke and the group at the end of Church Street.

  The Apaches who made their attack on foot were back to their horses now. On the rim Lobo Colorado saw his first party of horsemen milling under the rapid fire of the five accurate rifles. Throwing back his head Lobo Colorado brought out a shout from his deep barrel of a chest. It was a shout which carried to the men on the edge of town. Zeke spoke Apache, and the words brought the hair standing bristly and stiff along the back of his neck.

  ‘Brave up, brothers!’ Lobo Colorado’s booming shout rang out over every other sound. ‘This is a good day to die!’

  It was a shout no self-respecting Apache brave could resist. Not when their great war chief was hurling his horse down the slope towards them. The braves sent their horses leaping forward, hurling down the slope to count coup, to loot, to kill.

  Ellwood stopped by Zeke’s side, rubbing the blood from his face and then forced bullets into the breach of his Winchester. The old miner was coolly firing at the Apaches, working as fast as he could to reload the old Remington rifle. He hoped for a clear shot at Lobo Colorado but did not get the chance. Glancing sideways at Ellwood, he growled:

  ‘Reckon this’s where we go dead, Major. Head for the church!’

  Zeke and his men, except the two who would not be coming, backed off, their steady volley firing slowing the charge of the Apaches. Then Zeke gave a grunt of pain and dropped, a bullet through his leg. Ellwood bent, helped Zeke up, got him across his shoulders and tried to lift the rifle.

  ‘Head for the church with Zeke, Major,’ a miner gasped out. ‘We’ll do what we can to stop them.’

  Ellwood did not hesitate, he turned and ran for it, carrying the wounded man across his shoulders. He went by the jail, ignoring the scared yells of the two prisoners, making for the church to leave Zeke and return to help the remaining miners.

  It was at this moment Dusty Fog brought his party into the attack, coming in behind the charging Apaches. They came from the stage trail and down the slope towards the town, a charging, shooting, wild yelling body of men with the wagons rocking and swaying in the centre of the bunch. They smashed into the Apaches from behind, the attack coming as a complete surprise.

  It was a brief, hectic madhouse as guns roared, horses squealed, men shouted and cursed. Through it all, even in the wild rush Dusty could find time to admire the superb horsemanship of the Apaches
as they wheeled and turned their light war-ponies before the heavier cavalry mounts.

  Bogran came boiling up in the churned-up dust behind Dusty. He saw the small Texan ahead and a light of hatred came over his face. This was his chance to avenge himself on the man who beat and humiliated him. Bringing up his revolver he lined it on Dusty’s back, then drew back the hammer. Then he stiffened, a piece of the front of his tunic erupted in a bloody mess and slowly he keeled out of the saddle. Harris, the prisoner, came by, levering a fresh bullet into the chamber of the Springfield carbine. He looked down as his horse went by Bogran’s back-shot body.

  ‘You won’t abuse no more prisoners, Bogran,’ he hissed, ‘nor shoot a good man in the back either.’

  Dusty Fog would never know how close he came to death, or that he owed his life to a man who was going to the Stockade for life.

  Dusty saw a painted, screaming warrior ahead of him. There was no time to do anything but send the huge paint smashing into the war-pony and hope for the best. Down went the little Apache horse, and Dusty’s right hand Colt wrote a finish to the warrior.

  Then they were through the Apaches, but their trouble was only just beginning. Lobo Colorado’s men were taken by surprise by the sudden and unexpected attack from behind. They broke and scattered, not knowing for sure how many men were in the attacking party. Now they knew and could figure odds of over ten to one being good medicine. They were reforming and preparing to come on Dusty and his men like a pack of wolves on a hamstrung buffalo.

  ‘Fight on foot!’ Dusty roared. ‘Waco, three men to run the horses to the church.’

  Waco waved a hand in answer to the order, although he did not wish to leave his friends in the middle of a good fight. He and the three men Dusty allocated the task of handling the horses closed in and headed them for the church, heading along the now almost deserted Church Street. Behind him, on foot, the men ranged alongside the startled miners, and Dusty’s voice shouted an order for volley firing.

  The first volley crashed out as Waco was approaching the jail, he heard a yell and looked at the barred cell window. To his amazement, two scared-looking faces peered out at him. It didn’t take a mind-reading Comanche witch-woman to know what the two men wanted, or what had happened. It also took Waco less than half a second to go into action. He yelled to the men to keep on and swung his horse, leaving the saddle at a fast run. The big paint was headed on with the rest of the horses and Waco lit down on the sidewalk, went across it and tried the jail door. The door was locked and Waco wasted no time in thinking of rights of property. His right foot came up and smashed into the side of the lock. The door held for the first kick, then burst open on the second, and Waco went in fast.

  At the desk he halted a moment, his eyes going first to the prisoners, then to the chained, locked, line of rifles and shotguns on the wall rack. He let out a low snarled curse at what he saw. The town marshal must be a callous brute to leave prisoners locked in a cell at a time like this. He was worse than a brute to leave a line of weapons where they could fall into Apache hands.

  Waco forgot the prisoners for a moment, the weapons were of more importance to him. He went and looked at the chain, then at the lock, this was big, strong and would take some breaking. There was no time to look for keys and a bullet was always an uncertain thing to break a lock with. There was always the more than even chance, if a bullet was tried, of jamming the lock completely and that would be fatal. There was not time to try and break the lock, not with Dusty and his men fighting a rear-guard action and being forced back along Church Street.

  ‘Young man!’ Scully’s voice held an urgent note. ‘I am not averse to shuffling off this mortal coil—but I’d rather not do it today.’

  Waco tore his attention from the weapons on the wall and asked, ‘Where’s the keys to the cell?’

  ‘There’s a set in the desk drawer,’ replied Scully. ‘The top drawer.’

  Moving fast Waco went to the desk, half expecting the drawer to be locked. It was not and he lifted out the key ring, crossed to the cell door and picked the most likely key to open the lock. It did not take more than twenty seconds, but they were the longest twenty seconds Scully could ever remember. There was a look of relief on his face as the cell door opened and he could get out. Followed by Willy, Scully went to the desk and pulled open the cupboard door at the side, from it he took his shoulder holster with the short barrelled Colt Store-keeper revolver in it. He checked the revolver was still loaded, then handed Willy the old cap and ball Remington which the young man could use with some skill.

  Waco stood looking at the line of weapons on the wall. He shook his head, they could not allow the rifles to fall into the Apache hands. The braves would have time in plenty to smash the lock, or break the chain and would so obtain Winchester rifles. There was only one thing Waco could do about it.

  The matched, staghorn butted guns came from his holsters in a flickering blur of movement, then began to roar. Left and right Waco shot, throwing his lead with accuracy at the rifles. He aimed for the breeches of the rifles, knowing that a two hundred and eighty grain bullet would put the rifles out of action. By the time his guns were empty Waco knew there was not one weapon in that rack which would be of any use to the Apaches.

  Dusty and his party were at the edge of the plaza by this time. It was the most dangerous part of the whole business. The crossing of that open space would be deadly dangerous.

  ‘Lon, Chet!’ Dusty yelled. ‘Half the men across the plaza and into the church, then give covering fire to the rest.’

  The two men moved fast, so did the men who Dusty selected as their party the previous night. Dusty held the rest, no longer volley firing but allowing the men to pick their own targets and fire at random. They made a stand at the end of Church Street, holding back the Apaches until the Ysabel Kid’s wild Comanche scalp-yell rang out.

  ‘Run for it!’ Dusty yelled.

  The soldiers and miners ran for the safety of the church. Then Dusty, Mark and Waco came last of all. They held their ground, allowing the other men to get halfway across the plaza, then turned and followed.

  At the church, standing on the wall ramp on either side of the gate, the Ysabel Kid and Bronson worked their rifles like men possessed. They poured a stream of rapid and accurately thrown lead over their running friends and at the Apaches. Not one of the Apaches could show himself for long enough to take a careful aim at the three Texans, not when faced with two men who could call down their shots with such accuracy. To try to do so meant either death, or so near a miss that the aim was spoiled.

  ‘What the hell happened?’ Dusty snapped, as he came through the gate and drew to one side to face Ellwood.

  ‘They were all over us,’ Ellwood answered, watching Dusty rest one revolver on the wall ramp while he reloaded the other. ‘They just appeared from out of the ground. Millet and the others wouldn’t stay and fight. I couldn’t hold the rifle pits.’

  ‘Rifle pits!’ Dusty spat the words out, seething with anger at the other man’s mistakes. He’d seen the holes in passing, but never connected them with rifle pits. ‘You mean you tried to fight Apaches from those things?’

  Before Ellwood could make any reply there was an interruption. Waco and Mark were standing by their friend, and Magoon came up to make his report. He’d been in the first party across the square, under orders to check on the defences of the church as soon as he reached it. His report was anything but satisfactory.

  ‘We lost nine men, including Bogran and both Stockade corporals. Used up a fair piece of ammunition. Got four walking wounded.’

  ‘That figures,’ Dusty replied. ‘Mark, you and Paddy make the rounds, find out how much ammunition each man’s got. How’s your supply, Marshal?’

  ‘Supply?’ Ellwood repeated, shaking his head as if to clear it. ‘We’ve no supply other than what we’ve got with us.’

  It took Dusty just half a second to get the implication of the words. He could hardly believe that the marshal
had failed to collect the hardware store stock.

  ‘How about the stuff from the hardware store?’ growled Mark. ‘Or does the owner expect us to buy it from him?’

  ‘The hardware store?’ Ellwood gasped, then his face lost all its colour. ‘We didn’t bring the stock from the store last night. There was no certainty that the Apaches would attack, and I couldn’t make Millet move his private property. So we never—’

  ‘Damn it to hell, man!’ Dusty’s voice dropped to an angry hiss. ‘You surely cleared the ammunition and arms out of the store, didn’t you?’

  ‘No!’ Ellwood’s reply was no louder than Dusty’s question. Suddenly Ellwood knew the terrible consequences of his failure to take proper command and take the necessary precautions. In this time of need, he’d been found wanting in almost everything he’d done. ‘We thought there’d be time—’

  Dusty was no longer listening. His face was set hard and grim as he turned to Magoon. ‘Tell off ten men. See they’ve all got a revolver full loaded and that they can handle it. Ten men, not including you.’

  Magoon went fast to obey. There was no time for arguing, or for asking to be cut in on whatever Dusty planned. He knew most of the men and picked out the ten best revolver shots. Harris was one of the group. The man’s face looked different somehow, since having got into action. He still held the Springfield carbine but was also in possession of a revolver, taken from one of the men killed on the street. He moved forward fast, not knowing what his duty was to be but ready to go along with the small Texan’s orders.

  The ten men stood in a group by the gate, faced by the four Texans. Dusty looked them over and nodded his approval.

  ‘All right,’ Dusty said, his voice quiet, yet every man of them heard it over the shooting from the walls. ‘There’s powder, ammunition and weapons been left in the hardware store along the street. We can’t allow them to fall into Apache hands, so we’re going to bring out what we can and destroy the rest.’

 

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