Death Rattle tb-8

by Terry C. Johnston

  The sun was coming. It had grown light enough that Titus had no trouble making out the dip and sway of the mountainside as it fell away to the desert far below. Why’d he ever crossed that godforsaken piece of sandy ground? He had no business in such inhospitable country. Not that he hadn’t crossed some water scrapes in his time, like that trail running from Santa Fe and Taos clear back to the settlements of Missouri. But, this was something different. They’d come here to ride off with every last Mexican horse they could lay their hands on.

  The sun was coming. Might well be his last.

  Just that Titus could smell death hovering nearby. Hell knew he had experienced enough of it: killed plenty men himself, or been there as men died … so he could for certain smell death’s fetid stench strong in his nostrils right now.

  Bass made the next shot, dropped one of the vaqueros, all of whom were more daring than most of the overcautious soldiers.

  He set about reloading—and wondered how many of the others would die before the Mexicans finally got him. There wasn’t going to be any firing squad for them. No hangman’s noose thrown over the branch of a tree. Bass snorted at that image—there wasn’t a tree tall enough in these parts to hang a man from the back of a horse! These soldiers were going to rub them all out and not take a one of them back to California.

  As he grabbed for his priming horn, Titus looked about for Frederico or his sister.

  Maybe the two of them had been killed early on in the fight and he couldn’t spot their bodies. Better chance that they’d run off at the first sound of trouble and were hiding back in the rocks somewhere. Titus couldn’t figure out how, but by doing something bold and amazing those Indians must have slipped on through the noose of Mexicans that was tightening around the trappers. Likely the soldiers allowed them through because they had come here for the horse thieves.

  Cradling the forestock in his left palm, Bass quickly looked for the closest target.

  Not that he begrudged Frederico and Celita at all. God knew they’d suffered plenty at the hands of their enslavers. He didn’t begrudge them getting away, escaping and fleeing and making what life they could beyond the reach of those Franciscan friars and cruel soldiers. He imagined them crossing the desert on foot, making for the land of the Ammuchabas.

  “How many of us left?” Smith demanded.

  Williams shouted, “I ain’t keeping count no more, you idjit son of a bitch!”

  The moment he had pulled the trigger, Bass looked around right and left, saw for the first time those men who were wounded—some lying in the grassy dirt, others sitting as they slowly bled all over themselves, a man here and a man there—scattered throughout their rocky fortress. So few of them left standing now with the Mexicans popping up—a dozen at a time—all the soldiers shooting by volley, then sinking back down to reload their old muskets.

  “But for the grace of God,” Coltrane muttered.

  The sudden sound of it stopped Bass cold. “R-roscoe? That you talked?”

  Coltrane turned, half grinned sheepishly. He only nodded.

  “Told you he talked, didn’t I?” Adair said from his travois.

  Silas sat with his back propped against a boulder, those two horse pistols filling his hands, his horn and pouch tucked in his lap. Ready for the moment the Mexicans charged.

  “It’s been good knowing you boys,” Titus said before he gave it a second thought. “All of you. ‘Specially you, Roscoe. Even though we ain’t ever talked.”

  “Good knowing you too, Titus Bass.”

  He could instantly tell by the looks on the faces of those other men around them that they felt the same way. Good comrades these. They would stand at his back when the last moment arrived, when he would be thrust on to whatever lay on the other side. Much as he had worried himself about hoo-doos and malevolent spirits crossing through from their world to this through a crack in the sky … he was surprised to find he felt strangely at peace right then. Assuring to be in the company of good men who weren’t about to give up even with death’s odor strong on the wind.

  The soft light in every set of those bloodshot eyes that met his told Titus Bass these men sensed the same indescribable bond they had forged through adversity, want, and sheer fortitude. Around him now were men who had suffered together, nearly died together, but had seen each other through. There was no greater camaraderie men could share than this: to stand together, shoulder to shoulder, and stare death back in the eye.

  Ebenezer Zane. Isaac Washburn. Jack Hatcher. Asa McAfferty. Bird In Ground. Rotten Belly. His father-in-law, Whistler. Jarrell Thornbrugh. And finally Strikes In Camp, his wife’s brother. Those good men who had passed on before him, their very souls now the stars twinkling upon the dark firmament of the night sky.

  Even those who he prayed still lived, men like Josiah Paddock and Shadrach Sweete. Big Throat Gabe Bridger, little Kit Carson, and Broken Hand Fitzpatrick.

  The sort of man who did not strut and crow like some puffed-up prairie cock. Instead, the sort of friends who quietly stood their ground and weren’t noisy braggarts who would crumple and fall when the last raise was made and that last hand of the game was called.

  Kersey brushed some of his long, dusty-blond hair out of his eyes and held out his grimy hand. “You got a few more for a friend, Titus Bass?”

  The instant Scratch looked down to pull up the flap and stuff his hand into his pouch, he heard the shrill whine as lead ricocheted off the boulder behind them—heard the air burst from Elias’s lungs as he spilled there at Scratch’s feet.

  “My back! My back!” Kersey screamed, digging at the wound immediately blackening his greasy calico shirt with a slick that reminded Titus of the blackstrap molasses his mam would pour over johnnycakes back when he was a boy in Rabbit Hash, Boone County, Kentucky. There on the southern bank of the Ohio.

  Although wounded in the arm, Jake Corn quickly crabbed across the trampled grass, hovered over Kersey, and pressed his hand upon the deep furrow.

  “Lay still, Elias,” Bass cooed as he knelt, glancing into Corn’s eyes.

  “Don’t move,” Corn reminded, then looked again into Bass’s eyes, his face gone a pasty white with uncertainty for his best friend.

  Titus could tell how the deep furrow must hurt, watching Kersey grind his teeth in pain. “Better you don’t move till …”—and he scrambled to find what more to say—“till we drive these greasers off.”

  “You ain’t … gonna drive ’em … off,” Kersey gasped against the agony of that ugly wound that continued to seep around Corn’s best efforts. “They aim to rub us … all out—”

  Of a sudden lead zinged and splatted all round them, making the Americans duck as one. Then a few, like Bass, dared peer up to discover the Mexicans had gained a superior position on the edge of an outcrop above them. In those seconds as he watched, more and more uniforms joined the first, one after another plopping onto their bellies, aiming their muskets down at the boulders where the horse thieves had taken refuge. Right where the Americans found themselves trapped like fish in a rain barrel.

  “Bring the wounded over here!” Williams ordered.

  “You heard him!” Bass cried; starting to crab toward Adair on his knees. “Drag the wounded over to Bill afore they’re shot up some more!”

  The trappers no sooner had started pulling their bloody companions toward a shadowy hollow in the rocks when they whirled around together—all of them instantly aware of the clatter of metal scabbards on the rocks, the scrape of boot soles clambering up the boulders, the grunts and cursing of the Mexicans who suddenly appeared behind them. The soldiers had broken through the gap in the boulders and were preparing to finish the slaughter.

  “Gimme a gun, goddammit!” Kersey rasped, seizing Corn’s wrist in desperation. “I’m gonna kill one more of them sonsabitches before I go down!”

  Corn tenderly wrapped Elias’s fingers around a pistol he pulled from his belt. Jake twisted about on his knee, crouching at Kersey’s shoulder with Bass,
every able-bodied man leveling his weapons at the soldiers.

  There were too many of the Mexicans. This would be their last hurraw. No time to reload after the next shot—

  “Fire!”

  Someone hollered that order. Maybe Smith, perhaps Williams. It didn’t matter. The trappers’ guns exploded into those first soldiers to penetrate the rocky fortress. Shrieking in surprise and pain, the soldiers and vaqueros fell back, the front rank dead or seriously wounded. Behind them others were yelling, pressing forward—their leaders furiously waving sabers as they resumed their all-out assault.

  Even more of the dusty blue jackets appeared on the rocks as the gunsmoke cleared. Already so close the Americans had no time to reload. If the soldiers did not reload and shoot their smoothbore muskets, if they kept on coming with their long, glittering bayonets, they would close on the raiders, so close each man could look into his enemy’s eye … to see there the fear or dread, even hatred, as the Mexicans lunged near enough to jab and slash with their bayonets—

  Where there had been only cheers of impending victory and lusty battle oaths among the soldiers an instant before, suddenly there were cries of surprise and shrieks of panic. At the very moment the Mexicans were about to plunge in among the trappers and those empty guns, the soldiers and vaqueros wheeled about—trapped between the Americans and a new adversary.

  Behind and above, on all sides of the trappers, the dull, gray boulders sprouted naked brown bodies. Warriors wearing nothing more than short breechclouts and moccasins, firing one short hunting arrow after another from their small, powerful bows.

  Frozen in that moment of utter disbelief, Bass blinked—unable to fathom the sudden appearance of these short Indians. Like the Ammuchabas, very much like Frederico himself. None of them tall, in any way like the statuesque Crow, Shoshone, even Blackfoot. Much smaller in stature as they bounded across the rocks, surrounding and overwhelming the startled and quickly demoralized soldiers.

  The Mexicans still able to stand found themselves surrounded and began to slowly back from the field. From one moment to the next, a brown warrior fell to a soldier bullet—but even more brownskins stepped into the gap, pressing their vicious attack. Screaming, u-looing, and … from somewhere nearby came the constant, heartbeat thunder of a huge drum, a sound swelling all the larger as it reverberated within this rocky defile. Almost deafening as it pounded in the ear with the shouts, screams, warnings, and death rattles of Mexican and Indian alike; those shrill whistles of frightened horses; the scrape of soldier gun and scabbard dragged over the rocks as terrified men made a frantic escape; a steady thung-thung-thung of those short horn bows.

  Without mercy, the naked attackers fell upon those too slow, those who fell behind the rest in this mad flight. Every wounded soldier or vaquero was descended upon, his head yanked up—throat slit brutally before a last gasp could be taken, dark blood seeping into the green of the short grass, splattering the yellow of the trampled dust. But these warriors did not stop to take the black hair of their victims. Instead the Indians leaped to their feet once more, shouting anew, their hands and arms and stubby knives drenched with the crimson that glistened in the first rays of the coming day.

  On both sides of the Americans, even through the startled trappers themselves, the Indians sprinted after the terror-filled Mexicans. Passing right on by the horse thieves without so much as a blink of acknowledgment. Without the slightest attempt to harm the stunned Americans in any way.

  Almost as suddenly as the warriors had appeared, they were driving the soldiers before them—dropping every laggard, quickly finishing off the wounded, then pressing their advantage of swift and total surprise. Then they were shadows, for the sun had risen far enough to paint these death moments with the first filaments of light, creating the first, flitting specters of smudge and stain at the same instant.

  A single voice gradually arose above the others—this one booming, low and reverberant as the black belly of thunder itself. Very much unlike the higher, shrill cries of the warriors whipping their way after the retreating soldiers. A voice that echoed and rattled from the boulders.

  Bass turned immediately as the shadow crossed Corn and Kersey, squinting up at the low cliff above and behind them. Peering over his shoulder, he could see only the glare of sudden rays of the rising sun backlighting the shadowy figure. A form so dark he appeared to be a piece of the night itself, no more than a fragment of the night now gone with the coming of this day.

  Behind this figure the sun of that new dawn made the man’s form all the blacker, all the more shadow than he was of substance. Titus tried to shield his eyes, squinting up as the leader shouted orders to his warriors.

  Tall. Was it only that Scratch crouched down here and the strange figure stood up there that gave this man the appearance of such great height?

  As the leader bounded off the cliff and started hand over hand down the rocks, dropping out of those first rays of the sun, many of the trappers stood and turned in disbelief. This Indian was nothing like his warriors. The hundreds who had swarmed after the Mexicans all had their black, coarse hair cropped at the shoulder, bangs cut straight across the forehead, just above the eyebrows.

  But their leader was bald—his black head as naked as Titus had ever seen a man’s skull.

  Still, he dressed no different than his warriors. Around his waist hung the same skimpy skin breechclout the others wore, and on his feet the same crude moccasins tied at the ankle.

  While the warriors were dark brown in color, their leader’s skin was instead a deep, rich black that glistened with sweat. He approached the white men with all but the color and sheen of a glistening vein of coal tucked into the side of those hills bordering the upper Tongue and Powder river basins. And when he dropped to the ground within the boulders themselves, turning now to face the Americans, Titus realized there was even more to the difference between this leader and his fighting men.

  Besides the fact that he stood a full head taller than even the tallest warrior, the only hair remaining on the leader’s head were those bushy eyebrows—each one like a furry gray caterpillar above eyes narrowed, half lidded in the brand-new light. Singing out in his people’s tongue, this war chief joyously welcomed back the first of the returning warriors, flush with victory.

  All around the Americans now more than fifty of the short, brown fighting men pressed close, at least a hundred more shoving up behind them—every last one smiling at the whites they had just dragged back from the precipice of death—grinning as if nothing could be more fun than killing Mexicans. Soldiers or vaqueros—it did not seem to matter. These short-haired, laughing Indians were splattered with the blood of their enemies—for that nothing could bring them any more joy.

  Scratch looked around as some of the trappers began muttering among themselves. He turned with the others who watched the tall, black-skinned leader slowly step through the ranks of the white men, carefully peering at each hairy, pale face, studying it intently, before moving on to stop and study the next.

  Something about the leader’s broad nose, those expressive, almond-shaped eyes …

  To everyone’s surprise this leader put his hands on his hips and shouted to his warriors—immediately silencing them. As the last of their number obeyed, Bass realized he could almost hear the thud of his own heart, the faint cry of a nearby bird, and the scrape of the tall man’s moccasins on the gravel under his feet.

  Then the leader spoke, clearing his voice before he said, “Ti … tuss? Ti … tuss Bass here?”

  Unsure he had actually heard what he thought the tall one just said, not completely certain with the strange accented inflection to the words that had emerged from the chief’s lips, Bass glanced about, seeing how some of the trappers stood staring slack-jawed at the chief, the rest of the white men turning to peer at Titus in disbelief.

  “He say B-bass?” Williams repeated, astonishment carved on his lined and wrinkled face.

  “Tituss,” the leader repeated
as he turned to stare at Williams inquisitively, breaking the word into a pair of distinct syllables once again, a long and pronounced s on the end. “You Tituss Bass … yes?”

  “H-him,” Tom Smith said, pointing.

  The leader turned slightly, took three steps toward Scratch, halting within an arm’s length of Bass where he cocked his head, studying the white man’s face, his eyes squinting as if mentally reckoning on something of great breadth and weight.

  Bill Williams slid up to stand close, not quite between them. He asked the tall leader, “You k-know him?”

  “Tituss?”

  Stunned into speechlessness for so long, Scratch could finally admit, “Yes.”

  “Tituss Bass!” the tall one repeated, the name sounding more clear with repetition. “Excuse, please. No English for long, long time. You—Tituss Bass? Tituss from Ohio River?”

  Scratch’s brow furrowed, his head swam in confusion. “I … I come from the Ohio—yeah. Long, long ago.”

  For a long moment the leader closed his eyes, raising his face to the sky as his lips moved silently. Then he lowered his chin and stared into Bass’s eyes once more. “Long ago. Been a long time I don’t speak the white words, long time now. You—me … at the Owens … Owensboro—farewell a long, long ago.”

  Swallowing hard, struggling to make sense, examining those eyes that did not belong to this time and place, knowing those black eyes belonged instead to somewhere in the past—

  Holding out his big, rawboned hand, the tall man said, “Thirty-two years now we come here. In your world, it is thirty-two years.”

  Bass stared down at the offered hand in utter disbelief. Where was he thirty-two years ago? So he asked, “On the Ohio?”

  Again the tall leader struggled for the words, then he said, “It so long ago—I remember the place and the time … better than I remember English. But English coming back now. Forgive, but I trouble with the words to say.”