The Black Horse Westerns

by Abe Dancer

  Will Henry raised a gloved hand and used its shade to stare at the Apaches who were already staring back at the sun-baked intruders behind them.

  Talbot steadied his uneasy horse and looked down at the Apaches who had been gathering up the dead carcasses of desert deer dropped by Tarka’s braves as they had fled the volley of bullets which chased them even faster than the Apaches’ ponies.

  ‘Damn it all, boys!’ Talbot snarled loudly in angry confusion. ‘Apaches! I never figured on it being Apaches that was doing all the shooting.’

  ‘And they done seen us, Tate,’ Smith added.

  ‘What they got down there, Tate?’ Henry asked. ‘Is that Diamond Bob Casey they’re hauling across the sand?’

  ‘Nope. Looks like deer to me,’ Talbot spat.

  Liam Davis swung his mount full circle in an attempt to prevent it from fleeing the merciless rays of the blinding sun.

  ‘I’m for high-tailin’ it out of here, Tate,’ the eldest of the Davis boys chipped in. ‘I don’t mind chasing and killing a white hombre but I draws the line at mixing punches with savages.’

  Ken Davis held his reins up to his chest and kept his own horse in check. He looked at the ten or so Indians below them and then back at Talbot.

  ‘Liam’s talking sense,’ he told Talbot. ‘We ain’t gonna last long if’n we tangles with Apaches.’

  ‘Ya scared?’ Talbot growled.

  ‘Yep!’ both Davis brothers said at exactly the same time.

  ‘But Casey’s tracks head on straight through there.’ Talbot pointed at the deep churned-up sand they had been following for more than thirty minutes. ‘We gonna let a bunch of painted heathens scare us off? Ya willing to lose ten grand in crisp fresh-minted greenbacks?’

  Will Henry leaned closer to his leader. ‘We’re outnumbered two to one, Tate. If’n it was white men I’d not be worried but I’ve never gone up against that many Injuns before.’

  Talbot looked at Henry. ‘Not you as well? I thought that you’d have the guts to try, Will.’

  ‘I just don’t want my guts spread out all over this sand for buzzard bait,’ Henry admitted.

  ‘Let’s ride out of here,’ Ken Davis begged.

  Smith looked at the youngest member of their small band and waved a knowing finger. ‘Ya think that our nags can outrun Apache ponies, Ken boy?’

  Ken looked at his brother and then Henry. Both men were shaking their heads in answer. He then returned his eyes to Smith.

  ‘Ya mean we gotta fight them?’

  ‘Better than a back full of arrows or lead,’ Smith winked.

  Talbot looked heavenward for a second and then back at his four men. Against his own better judgement he decided to use his last wild card to try to buy their help.

  ‘OK! OK! What if I was to pay ya all four thousand dollars apiece?’

  Frank Smith blinked hard. ‘How?’

  Talbot turned his head. ‘I lied about the reward money. Casey’s worth twenty thousand dollars, not ten thousand.’

  Frank Smith smiled wide. ‘Ya as crooked as I am, Tate. I like that in a man.’

  ‘Yep,’ Talbot nodded. ‘I thought ya might.’

  Smith eyed the others. ‘I’m willing to to try and kill me some Apaches for that kind of dough. What about you, boys?’

  The Davis brothers remained silent.

  Henry shook his head. ‘Look at them young bucks down there, Frank. They all got at least ten years on us. How can we get the better of any of them? Back in Senora on Main Street maybe, but here?’

  ‘Four grand, Will,’ Smith gushed greedily. ‘That’s worth dying for.’

  Talbot adjusted himself on his saddle. He raised his gloved right hand and pointed at the Apaches. They were moving to their ponies fast.

  ‘Make up ya minds, boys. Ya ain’t got much time.’

  Liam Davis shook his head.

  ‘I’m for riding.’

  Before his brother could open his mouth a sound cut through the dry morning air. It was one that they knew only too well. Rifle fire could never be mistaken for anything else.

  But recognition came a fraction of a heartbeat too late. Ken Davis was lifted off his saddle as his chest exploded under the impact of the small lead bullet. Blood splattered over the other riders. Davis fell limply to his right and hit the ground hard. His left boot remained caught in its stirrup. The sand went red as a crimson river poured from the deep bullet wound in his chest.

  ‘Ken!’ Liam screamed out in horror.

  ‘Them Apaches have got carbines, Tate!’ Henry shouted.

  The four remaining horsemen steadied their mounts and watched in horror as Ken Davis’s horse galloped down the dune towards the group of well-armed Apaches. A trail of gore was left in the hoofprints punched into the sand.

  Talbot leaned back and grabbed the wooden stock of his own Winchester. He pulled it free of its long saddle scabbard and brought it up to his shoulder. He cocked its mechanism and fired into the heart of the gathered warriors. One of the ponies fell on to the sand. Talbot quickly fired a second shot. This time it was one of the Apaches who fell.

  ‘Good shot!’ Smith praised as he drew one of his Colts and fired down into the heart of the Indians.

  ‘C’mon!’ Talbot urged. ‘Kill the varmints!’

  ‘What we gonna do?’ Liam Davis screamed above the sound of rifle-and gun-fire.

  There was only one thing they could do.

  As bullets cut through the air all around the riders the four horsemen spurred and thundered down the dune atop their fevered mounts and started to fire their arsenal of varied weaponry at the Apaches.

  A sickening cloud of gunsmoke enveloped the desert as both sides blasted at one another.

  Within seconds the white sand had been stained scarlet.

  ELEVEN

  With reins gripped between their teeth and blazing weapons in their hands, the quartet of horsemen thundered down the dune towards the small group of Apaches. They spurred and fired with equal ferocity as their already lathered-up mounts ploughed through the sand towards the rifles of their adversaries. As he had always done, Talbot led from the front.

  The desert shook as rifles and six-guns spewed out their lethal lead from both sides. The Apaches had been quick to reach their ponies and the rifles they had managed to acquire on their journey from the reservation. Yet the guns of Talbot and his outlaws had been equal to them.

  Shafts of red-hot tapers cut through the dry air from the riders’ weapons into the Indians and their mounts. Apaches fell wounded and dead into the sand. But the deadly traffic of bullets was not one-way. It moved in both directions. The rifles of the young Indians who managed to avoid the bullets of the horsemen were just as vicious and just as accurate.

  Will Henry had not wanted this fight. But he had followed Talbot anyway. It had proved to be the right thing to do on more occasions than he could recall. But this time he should have listened to the gnawing in his craw and not the valiant words that had been spat from the mouth of the man with the tin star. This time Henry should have high-tailed it as the Davis boys had urged.

  It was unclear how many bullets hit the eldest of the outlaws before he finally slumped in his saddle and gasped his last utterances. Even though its master was on his way to Hell itself, Henry’s horse kept charging on. As Talbot kept cranking the lever of his Winchester and blasting back from his galloping mount he had seen Henry riddled with lead beside him. Talbot was fast to react.

  Casting his empty rifle aside, the leader of the small outlaw gang drew his own horse level with that of his already dead friend. He reached across and grabbed the bridle of the wide-eyed mount and pulled it close to his own.

  Now Will Henry would be his shield.

  Steering his and Henry’s horses towards the churned-up trail he and his men had followed for over two days, Talbot dragged one of his Colts from its holster and cocked its hammer. He would not waste a single bullet, for there was no way that he could reload his guns when travelling at br
eak-neck speed.

  The dust of fine sand was blinding to both sides in the furious battle. It masked the eyes of the gunmen from their targets but it also protected them from their foes’ lead.

  Frank Smith had fared better than Henry.

  He was still alive.

  Being a man who valued his own life above all others, Smith had managed to drive his own horse away from where the Indians were gathered. He would let Talbot and Henry soak up their bullets as he forged on in chase of the man he now knew was worth $20,000 dead or alive.

  Smith had ridden low over his saddle to make himself a smaller target for the Apaches’ bullets. Hanging across the shoulders of a galloping mount did indeed make him far smaller target but it did nothing to reduce the size of the mount beneath his saddle.

  His luck did not last long.

  The Apaches might have been young but they possessed all the skills and cunning of their elders. They blasted their rifles at the horse instead. It was a target that even a blind man could have found.

  Two of the kneeling Apaches turned their carbines on to the horse beneath Smith. He heard the shots and then felt the animal buckle under him.

  It happened quickly.

  One second the horse was thundering at top pace and then next it was hitting the sand so hard it sent its master flying through the air. The horse cartwheeled and crashed.

  Liam Davis should have listened to his own advice. He should have turned and spurred away from the near-naked men covered in war paint. Yet even he had swallowed Talbot’s sugar. He had blindly followed his three companions with his guns blazing at the Apaches.

  Perhaps it had been revenge which had made him spur and start to fire his guns so feverishly. He had just seen his kid brother killed with a single well-aimed shot beside him. He had then seen the body of his brother dragged down the dune by the terrified horse and tossed around like a rag doll, leaving a trail of gore in its wake.

  Whatever it had been that had got the better of him, it was now too late to worry about.

  Davis had tried to keep pace with Talbot. He had managed to do so until his fingers were pulling on spent triggers. Suddenly he realized that his Colts were empty. He holstered them and pulled the reins from his teeth.

  He spurred even harder.

  Somewhere beyond the wall of gunsmoke and swirling dust the remaining Apaches were still firing their rifles. Yellow flashes came out of the turbid mist and whizzed by him. Frantically trying to find a route out of the madness he had ridden into, Davis swung his horse to his right and dug both spurs into the creature’s already bleeding flesh.

  But as Davis galloped through the choking dust he realized that he had made the wrong choice of direction. Suddenly they were there ahead of him, kneeling between their ponies.

  He could actually see the whites of the Apaches’ eyes. Luckily for Davis the remaining Indians were as shocked and stunned as he was. He dragged the reins back and spurred again. His horse leapt over them before they could take aim.

  Looking over his shoulder before the dust enveloped them once more Davis saw one of them train the long carbine barrel straight at him. Dragging his reins hard to his right he managed to turn his mount to the side. Then he heard the deafening sound behind him.

  It was like being kicked by a mule in the back.

  Liam Davis felt his right boot come from its stirrup as the forceful impact punched into his back. Somehow he managed to steady himself long enough for his to boot to find the stirrup again.

  Fighting the agonizing pain that had torn him apart, Davis galloped on through the dust.

  ‘Keep riding, Liam boy!’ Smith yelled out from the cover of his dead horse as Davis’s mount headed toward him.

  ‘Frank?’ Davis blinked hard. Yet his eyes did not seem to work. It was like looking through a waterfall. He coughed and saw blood cover the mane of his still galloping horse.

  ‘I’m hit, Frank!’ Davis yelled out as he drew close to where Smith was waiting behind his fallen mount.

  Smith did not reply. The outlaw just rose, stepped on top of his injured mount and threw himself at the passing horse.

  Frank Smith grabbed Davis’s saddle horn, swung his body and landed on the cantle behind his cohort. He reached around his wounded pal and then spurred as hard as he could.

  With Apache bullets seeking them out, the horse thundered into another cloud of dust and gunsmoke. Smith did not stop his spurs from cutting into the flesh of Davis’s animal until they had ridden out of range.

  But the battle was not over behind them. With deadly precision Tate Talbot cocked the hammer of his .45 and squeezed its trigger until all six of the Colt’s bullets had been discharged. Only then did he release the reins of Will Henry’s mount and drag back on his own reins. He stopped his horse, dived for cover and then switched his empty .45 for its loaded twin.

  He blasted six more shots to where he knew the Indians had to be, then lay as flat as he could. Bullets passed within a few inches above him.

  The air was thick. Acrid smoke from the barrels of every weapon clouded the area as the remaining braves blasted their rifles in hope of hitting their elusive prey.

  Talbot had not lived as long as he wanted to just yet. He would not give in easily. The sheriff of Senora rolled over and over into the dense churned-up dust cloud just as he heard the pitiful sound of his horse as it was riddled with bullets.

  The animal staggered after its master and then fell heavily beside him. Talbot crawled to it and lay in the river of blood which ran from its wounds and shook the spent shells from his gun. The man who had always prided himself on his nerve found that he was fumbling with the bullets from his gunbelt as he listened to the rifle fire behind the stricken horse.

  After managing to reload both his weapons, Talbot spun round in a kneeling position and crouched behind the saddle of his groaning animal. He holstered one and cocked the hammer of the other until it fully locked into position. He took a deep breath. He swallowed hard and forced himself to wait.

  For what seemed like an eternity Tate Talbot bided his time as he listened intently to the rifle shots coming from where he had last seen the fearsome Apaches.

  There was only one rifle being fired now, he told himself.

  He looked all around him. Again he swallowed hard. Was he the only one of his gang still alive? The question burned into his mind like a branding-iron.

  Talbot started to muster every ounce of his nerve and strength as he listened to the solitary rifle being cocked and fired. He raised his head above the saddle and squinted into the smoke and dust.

  Talbot could see the white flashes as the surviving Indian’s carbine fired one bullet after another.

  The Apache was low.

  Talbot lifted his arm over the saddle and aimed his readied weapon. He closed one eye and tried to estimate where he should send his deathly bullet.

  Another flash came through the smoke.

  Talbot squeezed his trigger.

  There was no mistaking the sound of a man who had been hit dead centre by a .45 shell. Talbot drew his hammer back again and rose from the bloody sand. His gun barrel remained aimed at exactly the same spot. He was about to walk when he saw the Apache coming at him as the dust and smoke swirled away from the mortally wounded man who still held on to his rifle.

  Again Talbot fired.

  Again his aim was true.

  The Indian was lifted off the sand and thrown backwards.

  Talbot started to breathe again.

  He staggered on and stared down at the Indian. He looked young. Real young, Talbot thought. Too damn young.

  Step after step the outlaw leader continued until he reached the place which had been hidden from him for most of the brutal battle. There was blood everywhere. The blood of men and animals alike mixed and stained the sand he strode across.

  Both his guns were drawn now.

  His eyes darted from one body to the next. Even though it was obvious that all these painted men were dead, Talbo
t still feared them. Feared that they might leap to their feet and continue their fight.

  Even death could not diminish their inherited magnificence.

  Only when satisfied that they were truly dead did Talbot raise his eyes and look at the few ponies which had somehow managed to elude his bullets. The rest of the ponies were either dead or dying.

  Talbot moved slowly through the dead men and animals and managed to grab the rope reins of the nearest pony. He pulled it towards him and ran a gloved hand down its nose.

  There was no way that he would be able to put a saddle on the back of this creature, he told himself. He picked up a large water bag made from the innards of some unknown animal and hung it over the shoulders of the skittish pony.

  Tate Talbot threw himself on to the back of the pony.

  He rode away from the red sand.

  TWELVE

  Navajo Nate Willows was a man who had seen many things in his forty-nine years. Most of those things had been bad. The sickening sight which met him as the sun hung low in the afternoon sky was no better. In fact it was probably a lot worse. Death in the blistering heat of a desert beneath a remorseless sun had an aroma about it which travelled miles away from its core. It was a scent that filled the nostrils of animals and men alike. Once inhaled it could never be shaken loose or forgotten.

  Willows had been an army scout for more than a quarter of his life. Before that he had lived with the Indians with whose tribal name he had been branded. He had been a fur-trapper in what was once simply known as Indian Territory. He had lived and traded with white and red men alike and knew at least half of the tribes which once flourished from Canada down to Mexico. But that had been a long time ago. A time before the greed of a few destroyed the lives of the many.

  Willows had learned to speak the dialects of many of the Indians who had once freely frequented the vast uncharted lands. He was also an expert at talking with his hands to the many Plains tribes who had traded with him.

  For years he had lived in peace and then he had become a scout for an army he knew would one day destroy the last remnants of a life he had once thought would last for ever. Yet Navajo Nate was paid well enough to keep him in chewing tobacco and hard liquor. Neither of which could compensate for the things he had witnessed since his return to so-called civilization. The sight before his sand-bruised eyes made his heart heavy.