There was no one in his immediate view. Gun leveled, Sam used his free hand to part the blankets hanging from a metal rod screening off the rear of the room and stepped inside.
The partitioned-off space was empty. The rear window gaped open. Sam went to it, looking outside.
The girl was crossing the field toward the house. She moved slowly, stiff-legged, like she was walking in her sleep. She stared straight ahead, unaware of him at the window.
Two dead Indians lay in the grass, the one Sam had killed and one slain by a shotgun blast. Their horses were nowhere to be seen. Not so good, Sam thought. He didn’t want any horses running loose to attract attention to the ranch. Comanche attention.
He turned, going through the dogtrot into the east room. It was empty, too.
Going outside, Sam started making the rounds of the fallen braves in the dooryard, making sure they were dead. Double sure. He’d checked before going into the house, but the possible threat of a lurker within had prevented him from a too-scrupulous inspection.
He wasn’t taking a chance on any of them having enough life left in them to be a threat. It was an old trick of downed foes, white or red, to sham, playing possum, waiting for an opportunity to jump an unwary enemy. Sam had pressed his luck to the full already and didn’t want to crowd it further.
No worry about the brave with the scalping knife. Much of his head had been blown apart by a load of 12-gauge buckshot. The settler he’d been working on with the knife was no less dead.
Nasty stuff, but Sam wasn’t squeamish. Which was just as well, when he got a good look at the overgrown man-boy who’d been chopped up with the ax.
Sam was less certain about the brave who’d been raping the woman, approaching him with care. The brave was stretched out facedown on top of his victim. Her upturned face was showing. She looked dead as could be, open eyes glazed and unblinking.
Sam approached from the side, gun pointed at the back of the Indian’s head, ready to shoot. Getting the toe of his boot under the brave’s chest, he half kicked, half lifted the body off the woman. The brave was heavy; Sam grunted with the effort of moving him.
The body rolled off the woman, flopping onto its back. The bullets the woman had pumped into him with his own gun had inflicted a mortal wound, but not soon enough. He’d lived long enough to knife her. The blade was buried to the hilt in the woman’s left breast.
Sam closed her eyes. He pulled her dress down where it was bunched up around her waist, covering her up. Sighing heavily, he straightened up. He stuck the Navy Colt into his waistband on his left hip, unholstered the mule’s-leg and reloaded it with cartridges from one of his bandoliers.
The girl stood at the southwest corner of the house, her flat-eyed gaze taking in the whole scene. She stood very straight, hands clenched into fists at her sides. Her face was deathly pale. Sam went to her, trying to get between her and the bodies to block her view.
He hoped she wasn’t going to scream. He was in a tight enough spot without her going into hysterics. They both were. Not that he would have blamed her for throwing a fit.
Sam studied her face. Her eyes were wide, dry. A nerve twitched in the corner of her mouth.
No way to sugarcoat it, best say it the way it was. “Your people are all dead. I’m sorry.” He kept his voice low, so as not to startle her. But his mouth and throat were dry and his words came out harsh and croaking.
She started forward, but he stood in her way, stopping her. “There’s nothing you can do for ’em. I checked.”
She nodded, holding herself so taut Sam wouldn’t have been surprised to hear her corded neck muscles twanging with the movement. He watched her intently. She didn’t scream, didn’t faint.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“I’ve got to leave you for a minute, to check on those two braves behind the house, make sure they’re dead. Will you be all right?”
She nodded yes.
“If you hear any shots, that’ll be me, so don’t let it scare you. I’ll be right back. Then we’re gonna get out of here.” Sam stepped around her, starting forward, then paused. “Your folks are safe from hurt now. Best not to look if you can. You don’t want to see them.”
She was silent, staring at the bodies. Sam went around to the back of the house, drawing the mule’s-leg. He fired a shot into the heads of both braves, loaded two fresh cartridges into the receiver to replace the ones he’d expended, and returned to the front of the house. The girl was nowhere in sight. Sam’s flash of alarm was stilled by the sound of movement coming from inside.
She came out through the doorway carrying a stack of folded blankets. Setting them down beside the body of her mother, she took a blanket off the top of the pile, unfolded it, and spread it over the corpse.
Sam was reassured somewhat. The youngster was taking it better than he had thought she might, having just survived the slaughter of her family. Plenty of adults, even hardened frontier types, would have gone to pieces from the experience. But she might shatter anytime at the drop of a hat.
Sam knew they had to keep moving. Picking up a blanket, he covered the man-boy—most of him. A few body parts were scattered out of reach of the blanket. He helped the girl lay a blanket over her father.
She turned, starting toward the house.
“Where you going?”
“Getting a gun,” Lydia said.
Sam had been unsure if she had been shocked into speechlessness. That she could talk was heartening. He needed all the encouragement he could get. Things looked mighty grim for them. He’d been lucky to evade several bands of braves earlier after first encountering the slain emigrants and their half-burned wagon. Alone, it would have beeen touch and go whether or not he could slip the net of Comanches he’d seen covering the area. With a youngster in tow, the odds against him went up dramatically.
“Make it fast. We’ve got to move,” he called after her.
Lydia went inside, making no reply. A minute or two later she returned, carrying a rifle and a box of cartridges. It was a Henry’s, a repeater—a good gun. She took some cartridges out of the box and started loading it, She handled it like she knew what she was doing.
Sam said, “We’re in a heap of trouble, miss. The upland is thick with Comanches. Looks like the whole blamed tribe is on the warpath. More could come along any minute. We’ve got to get down to the flat, fast. Later when it’s safe we can come back and give your folks a Christian burial. But now we got to run. Savvy?”
“I savvy,” Lydia said.
“Good. Let’s mount up and ride.”
“I’ll take Brownie.”
“Brownie? Who’s that?”
“My horse. I’m not leaving him behind.”
Brownie, a strong, solid-looking gelding with good lines, was in the corral. The Comanches’ horses were saddled up, but there was no telling what their dispositions were like. Sam didn’t want to chance the girl being unable to control a strange mount. Best let her ride the animal she was used to and that was used to her.
Lydia went into the barn with him and pointed out a saddle. Sam carried it out while she toted a blanket. Brownie was anxious, unnerved by the blood, shooting, and violent death. Sam sympathized. He knew how the horse felt.
Lydia stood inside the end of the corral farthest away from where the Comanches’ horses were tied up. Brownie came to her when she called him. She stroked the horse’s muzzle and patted its neck, speaking softly to him, gentling him down. She put a bridle on him, then led him out through the corral door Sam had opened.
Sam unhitched the Comanche horses from the fence one by one and led them into the corral, then closed the door, penning them with the other horses. He didn’t want them wandering off, attracting Indian scouting parties to the ranch.
Lydia spread the blanket over Brownie’s back; Sam saddled him. She adjusted the saddle girth and the height of the stirrups, her movements deft and sure, her pale, slim-fingered hands steady.
/> Taking two handfuls of cartridges from the box, Lydia stuffed them into a pair of deep pockets at the front of her dress. She put the box in a saddle bag. There was no scabbard, but a set of leather ties allowed her to secure the rifle to the side of the saddle.
“My name’s Sam, Sam Heller. What’s yours?”
Lydia’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“So I can call you something besides Miss.”
“You talk funny. You’re a Yankee,” she said accusingly.
“That’s right.”
“Hmmph. Miss will do just fine, thank you very much.”
“The war’s over, in case you hadn’t heard.”
“That’s a sneaking Yankee lie. God bless the Confederacy and Robert E. Lee!”
Sam showed a quirked half smile. “Comanches don’t make no difference between Yankees and Rebels, you know.”
“Well, I do.” Lydia Fisher had been raised to believe that Yankees were the Devil. The stranger had no tail, and if he had horns they were hidden under his hat, but she trusted him no more than she had to. Trouble was, she had to, at least until she was off the plateau and safe among decent, civilized Southern folk.Sighing, Sam mounted up on Dusty.
She swung herself up on Brownie’s back. The horse’s eyes bulged, nostrils flaring. He pawed the ground, sidling. Leaning forward, Lydia patted Brownie’s muscular neck, murmuring comforting sounds into his pointed ears.
“Sure you can handle him?” Sam asked.
“Don’t worry about me, Mister Yank. Brownie’ll be okay once we get away from here.”
“What’s the fastest way off the plateau? Can we get down from there?” Sam pointed directly south where a ridgeline screened the edge of the plateau from sight.
Lydia shook her head. “Can’t go that way, it’s too steep. No way down. The nearest trail’s Hopper Glen, a half mile or so down the road.”
“Can we go through the woods? Any trails?”
She shook her head. “The brush is too thick. Got to take the road.”
“Great,” Sam said sourly. He and Lydia rode between the house and the woods, north across the field. Sam rode ahead, to scout Rimrock Road bordering the edge of the property. It was empty in both directions, as far as the eye could see.
Lydia came alongside him. They turned right on the road, going east. She did not look back at the ranch, not once, not even a glance.
“You look like you know how to handle that rifle,” Sam said.
“I do. Here in the hills, it’s shoot straight the first time, or you don’t eat,” Lydia said.
“Lord knows you got plenty of reason to want to even up. But don’t shoot straight off if you see a Comanche. Make sure he sees us first.”
“What d’you expect me to do? Throw flowers at him?”
“Just don’t give away our position if you don’t have to.”
After a fifth of a mile, the belt of woods on the south gave way to fields dotted with dirt mounds and stands of timber. “Best stay off the road if we can. The Comanches are out in force,” Sam advised.
They turned right, angling southeast for several hundred yards. A game trail wound east through low, rounded hills. They followed it.
“We’re coming on the Oakley ranch,” Lydia said after a while.
Sam couldn’t see it. “Where?”
“Not far. There’s a brook, then a rise. It’s on the other side.”
A low, tree-covered ridge ran north-south, a stream winding along its western foot. Smoke showed over the treetops, a hazy gray curtain. Sam reined to a halt, Lydia pulling up beside him. Sam shucked the mule’s-leg out of its holster, holding the reins in his free hand.
Lydia looked stricken. “The Oakleys?”
“Comanches got there first,” Sam said, shaking his head.
“Maybe it’s not too late to help.”
“Hear any shooting?”
“No.”
“It’s too late, girl. Comanches have already been and done. Any Oakleys left alive, they’d be shooting and the Comanches would be shooting back. It’s over.”
“You don’t know that for a fact.”
“I ain’t risking my hair to find out,” Sam said. “You?”
“No,” Lydia said, swallowing hard.
“Let’s get clear.” If we can, he thought. He pointed his horse north, Lydia following. They rode along the base of the ridge until they struck Rimrock Road, running east through a gap in the ridge.
Sam scouted the road. It looked clear. Quickly, he and Lydia crossed over to a long, grassy slope and trailed north along the foot of the ridge. He holstered the mule’s-leg as they rode on.
The ridge flattened out as the long grassy slope crested. Beyond, in the middle distance rose Sentry Hill, its base hidden by thick woods.
Sam and Lydia made a right-hand turn, going east once again. Below, a line of trees screened the Oakley ranch from view, but they could see the inverted pyramid of smoke rising amid the mass of leafy green boughs. Black at the base, it lightened to gray as it fanned out into the sky.
The fugitive duo crossed an open space, coming to a thicket of woods. Riding south along the treeline, they searched for an opening. A gap showed, revealing a game trail winding east through the brush. Sam and Lydia entered the narrow passage, forcing them to ride single file. Sam took the point, Lydia following. Shady groves alternated with sunny glades.
The trail bent southeast, the ground sloping downward. Once again, they crossed Rimrock Road. Beyond, the trail angled south. It widened, and they rode side by side.
The slope leveled off, the trail continuing south. The woods thinned out, showing bright, open sky. Ahead on the left, a massive shape loomed.
“Stickerbush Knob. We’re almost at Hopper Glen,” Lydia said in a hushed voice. “The glen’ll take us down to the flat.”
Stickerbush Knob was a sugarloaf-shaped mound, slant-sided and round-topped, with a rocky dome rising out of its south end. Its sides were covered with scraggly brush, dwarf trees, and weedy undergrowth. They rode south along its west side.
Sam halted a short distance from the knob’s south end. Lydia reined in, too, sour faced. “What for you stopping?” she demanded.
“Ever heard of ‘look before you leap’? I don’t want to go down the glen to find Comanches there,” Sam said.
They spoke in whispers.
“I’m gonna climb the mound and take a looksee.” Sam dismounted and hitched Dusty’s reins to the branch of a bush. “Sit tight. I’ll be back directly.”
“What if redskins get you?” Lydia asked.
“Then I won’t be back.”
“What’ll I do?”
“Run.”
“How’ll I know if they got you?”
“If you hear shooting and war whoops, ride out. Leave Dusty behind in case I make it.”
“I’ll wait.” Lydia looked doubtful. She loosened her rifle, holding it across the saddle, her eyes wide and watchful.
Sam didn’t blame her, he felt doubtful himself. But it was dangerous country and he’d feel better if he got the lay of the land. Trust the Comanches to set scouts watching the south slope to look for escapees. If he could spot them in advance, he and Lydia would have a better chance of evading them. He padded to the foot of the mound, glad he had on hunting moccasins instead of boots. Stepping carefully, he avoided treading on fallen twigs.
He didn’t think the girl would steal his horse and abandon him. She didn’t seem the type, but he’d figured folks wrong before, especially females, young ones, too. Besides, nobody could ride Dusty but Sam, as more than one horse thief had found out to their dismay. A sharp whistle from him and Dusty would come running.
At first glance, the thorn bushes massed at the base of the mound seemed impenetrable, but a closer look revealed gaps in the wall of brush. Slipping through an opening, Sam started up a fan of loose dirt and stone. He kept a sharp eye out for snakes; rattlers especially liked the kind of loose rock piles heaped up at the bottom of the mound. His
feet turned sideways, Sam climbed to the top of the fan on the edges of his soles for better traction and to minimize disturbances of the dirt. His passage was noiseless.
Above the fan, the dirt was hardpacked and covered with short, thick, colorless grass, eliminating the need to climb sideways. Spurs and slabs of bare rock jutted out at odd angles, serving as steppingstones as he scaled the slope. Stems of gnarly bushes served as handholds.
He broke clear of the tops of the trees hemming the mound, out of the shade and into sunlight. The midday sun was high and hot, causing him to break into fresh sweat. His shadow, a small blob of blackness, pooled at his feet.
Above and to his right, a rock ledge thrust out from the side of the hill. Circling around toward it, he clambered up onto the shelf. It was about four feet wide. He was a hundred feet above the ground. Through spaces in the tree boughs he could see the girl and the horses.
He climbed up the ledge up for another forty feet before it gave on to a wide, platformlike outcropping that decked the mound’s south end like a natural terrace. A rocky, razor-backed ridge ran north-south along most of the summit, cutting it in half and screening the opposite side. A tilted, round-topped slab stood thirty feet high, blocking most of the terrace, making it impossible for Sam to get around to the other side.
V-shaped gaps in the ridge looked promising. The notch in the nearest gap was wide enough for him to pass through. The gray-brown rock had plenty of handholds and footholds as Sam climbed up eight feet to the bottom of the V, four feet wide and lined with hardpacked dirt.
He looked for snakes—looked hard—but didn’t see any, before easing into the notch. He started through to the other side.
Somebody cleared his throat ... and it wasn’t Sam. He froze.
The man hawked something up and spat. The Navy Colt filled Sam’s hand as if it had leaped into it.
Silence.
Sam inched forward, wary of any betraying noise. Crouching, legs bent at the knees, he moved ahead with infinite care.
A Good Day to Die Page 11