The Battle At Three-Cross

by William Colt MacDonald

  Oscar said, “I’ll do that,” and hurried away.

  When Lance entered the big room a few minutes later everybody was there waiting for him. All eyes turned his way as he came in, and he realized they were looking to him for leadership. His heart sunk a little at the thought. It was going to be difficult to decide the best course to pursue. All had seen Fletcher’s note by this time, and the seriousness of the situation was fully realized. Katherine was the first to speak when Lance entered.

  She said, “At the start, Lance, I want it understood that I’m not to be treated as a woman. I can handle a gun and do my part. And there mustn’t be any talk of surrendering because of me.”

  “Frankly,” Sheriff Lockwood said, “I think we’d be fools to surrender. We couldn’t trust to Fletcher’s word——”

  “Certainly not,” Jones put in. “The man’s a mad dog. We’ve got to fight. Our case may not be hopeless. There are”—he counted rapidly—“Lance and the sheriff and Oscar are three; Lanky, Tom Piper and Trunk-Strap makes six. Then there’s Hub, Cal Braun, Luke Homer and myself. That’s ten. And Katherine. I wonder how much of a force Fletcher will have? Himself, Ordway and Johnson. Jehovah only knows how many Yaquentes, though——”

  “I wish there was some way we could get Miss Gregory away.” Oscar frowned, absent-mindedly crunching a lemon drop.

  “I’ve been thinking of that.” Lance nodded moodily. “We might make some sort of deal with Fletcher——”

  “Lance,” Katherine protested, “I won’t hear of that. I’d sooner stay than trust myself to that beast.”

  Lance nodded. “I think you’re right at that, Katherine, much as I hate to say it.”

  “Do you reckon,” Lanky drawled, “that we could slip Miss Gregory away after sundown——?”

  “Fiddlesticks!” Katherine snapped. “Don’t you suppose Fletcher will think of that and have men out watching for just such a move?”

  The men in the room remained silent, realizing the girl spoke the truth. Katherine went on, “I’m staying here and fighting with you. That’s settled. The sooner you men realize that the sooner you can get down to business and prepare a defense for this house. We’ve only got until daylight, remember. It’s suppertime now. I’ll take over the cooking of food so Cal can help the rest of you. Just forget about me.”

  Lance had to face the facts. He knew Katherine spoke the truth and that there was nothing else to do except as she pointed out. Reluctantly he conceded the point. “Right.” He nodded tersely, though his heart warmed to the girl’s courage. “It’s decided then that there’s to be no question of surrendering?”

  “No-o-o!” the room roared collectively. “We fight!”

  Lance smiled thinly and gave a sigh of relief. “Thank heaven you folks settled the question for me. I sure didn’t want that responsibility.” His manner stiffened. “All right, we fight. Get all the guns and ammunition together and see what we have.”

  “By the way,” Lanky said, “when I was hunting a burlap sack to put that snake in I found a whole pile of sacks in that shed beyond the corral. Suppose we fill ’em with sand and stack ’em along the outside edge of the gallery. It would make a dang good shelter to fire from.”

  “That’s an idea,” Lance said enthusiastically. “Lanky, you got a head on you. Get some picks and shovels, and we’ll get busy. The yard out in front of the house is sandy, gravelly stuff. Take it from there. Dig in the shape of a wide trench. We won’t have time to make it deep, but any obstruction should slow up the Fletcher gang when they come raiding. Maybe we’re not so bad off after all. The walls of this old house are fully two feet thick. We can do our fighting from the gallery; that will leave us the house to retreat to if things get tough. All the doors are stout, and we can bar them. We want to be sure and bring plenty of water into the house to night and stack our food where it will be handy. We might be in for considerable siege.”

  It was dark now. Oil lamps were lighted. Katherine started to prepare supper. Blankets were hung at the windows around the house. Guards were set to be on the watch for the first hostile move. Lanterns were lighted, and the men toiled to fill sandbags which were placed in the form of a breastwork around the edge of the long gallery. By twos and threes they dropped in to eat the food and drink the coffee Katherine had prepared. They all worked like beavers to get ready for the coming fight. The professor proved he could work with the best of them. For the present he seemed to forget his beloved cactus.

  By midnight practically all was done that could be done. The two wagons of the expedition, in addition to a couple of Mexican carretas that were found on the place, had been placed at strategic points about the house to furnish further barriers against the raiders. Lance had had the horses brought from the corral and tethered along the back of the house near the doors. Not that they’d help a great deal, but every possible obstacle against a charging army was considered good tactics.

  By this time all but the guards Lance had posted were in the big main room of the house oiling guns and in other ways preparing for the fight. Back of the house the earth had been cleared for some distance. It was probably from the front the attack would come, Lance decided. Not more than seventy-five feet from the gallery grew thick brush and trees, except for the opening that pointed the road to Muletero. “And it’s a cinch,” Lance mused, “Fletcher won’t be fool enough to come riding along that road. No, he’ll have his Yaquentes scattered through the brush, I’m betting.”

  Katherine was seated at a long table tearing into strips a bolt of cotton she had found in the house. She smiled at Lance.

  Lance said, “Bandages?” The girl nodded. Lance forced a smile in return. He didn’t say anything. The door to the gallery opened suddenly and Trunk-Strap Kelly entered. Kelly and Lanky were standing guard at the front of the house. Trunk-Strap said, “Lance, Lanky wants to see you. There’s a Yaquente outside making some sort of palaver. This Injun’s got the skin of a freshly killed rattler for a hatband on his sombrero—and the skin’s got feathers on it.”

  Lance hurried outside. In the dim starlight beyond the sandbag barricade he saw Lanky conversing with Huareztjio. Lance leaped the barricade and approached. “What is it, Lanky? Howdy, Horatio.”

  Huareztjio’s white teeth showed in a grin. “I’m t’ink fight weeth you, señor. Fletcher, him malo. How you say—bad, no?”

  “Fletcher is damned bad,” Lance said grimly.

  “Here’s the setup, Lance,” Lanky explained. “We’re getting a break. Huareztjio and his gang confronted Fletcher with that phony snake and asked questions. Fletcher tried to talk himself out of the fix but he didn’t convince all the Yaquentes by a long shot. Huareztjio and some of his buddies have come to fight for us if we’ll let ’em. They’re spoiling for a fight, anyhow——”

  “This isn’t some sort of trick?” Lance asked sharply.

  “I don’t reckon so. You saved Huareztjio from a beating one time and you showed him how Fletcher was pulling the wool over the eyes of the tribe. He and the cooler heads from his village want to show their gratitude. They’ve brought their guns and ca’tridges. Lance, we’re in luck. They’re fighting fools.”

  “How many men can Horatio produce?”

  “He claims to have seventy-five, but I ain’t seen one yet. Didn’t see Huareztjio until he was almost on top of me.”

  “Ask him if he knows how big a force Fletcher has.”

  Lanky put the question to Huareztjio. The Yaquente made quick reply. Lanky turned back to Lance. “He says Fletcher has gathered around a hundred and fifty men—Yaquentes and Apaches and breeds of various descriptions. Some of ’em are carrying pretty old guns too. Only the Yaquentes have modern arms.”

  Lance frowned. “And will Horatio and his men fight against Indians of his own tribe?”

  Lanky nodded. “A lot of the tribe wouldn’t have anything to do with either side. The Yaquentes who went with Fletcher are just young bucks with no sense, Huareztjio claims. Huareztjio and his pals ar
e just spoiling to teach the young bucks a lesson, and—like I say, after all, fighting is a Yaquente’s whole life. Shall we take him up on the offer?”

  “I figure we’d be fools not to. But where are these seventy-five men he claims he has with him?”

  Lanky spoke to Huareztjio. The Indian gave a quick, short call. Instantly from all sides white-clad forms, carrying guns, came leaping from the brush. In a moment they were gathered all around Lance and Lanky. Lanky gasped with surprise, then spoke quick words to Huareztjio.

  “My gosh!” Lance exclaimed. “We were surrounded and didn’t know it. Lanky, I reckon it would be a good idea to put a couple of these Yaquentes on guard.”

  “Sufferin’ sheep thieves!” Lanky said. “What do you think I just told Huareztjio? I got that idea as quick as you. Better take these hombres inside, Lance, and throw some coffee and food into ’em. You’ll make yourself solid. Trunk-Strap can stay out here with a couple of Yaquentes. I’ll go along to make talk if anything comes up.”

  They herded the Yaquentes into the house, much to the surprise of those inside. Lance explained briefly, “Horatio and his friends have come to fight for us. Our luck’s not all bad.” He told Katherine he could use some help fixing coffee and food for the Indians. The girl rose to go to the kitchen.

  A sudden clamor lifted among the Yaquentes. They were all staring at Katherine and talking excitedly. Lanky listened, then started to laugh. “It’s Miss Gregory’s yellow hair that gets ’em,” Lanky exclaimed. “There’s some old legend in their tribe about a white maiden with yellow hair coming to lead them to a great victory someday.”

  Katherine smiled up at the Indians crowded around her. More talking followed and the flash of even white teeth. Huareztjio grinned and pointed to Katherine, then said to Lance, “Your woman?”

  Lance flushed and stood tongue-tied. Katherine smiled. “His woman”—pointing to herself and then Lance.

  “My woman,” Lance answered Huareztjio. The Indians commenced to talk louder. They were fast making themselves at home.

  “If I’m your woman,” Katherine told Lance, “you can prove it by coming with me to the kitchen. There’s food and coffee to fix.”

  By the time they returned, bearing steaming pots and dishes, the big room in the ranch house was in an uproar of excitement. Oscar had brought out his stock of lemon drops and passed them around. Lanky laughed. “Those Yaquentes sure go for leming drops.”

  “Never made so many converts so fast in my life.” Oscar chuckled. “Maybe this is the way to wean ’em from that peyote habit.”

  “One thing’s certain,” Lanky said. “We’re solid with these Yaquentes now. They’ll fight for us until they drop.”

  About two o’clock in the morning Lance ordered all the lamps extinguished, saying, “Fletcher may not wait until dawn to attack.” A number of the Yaquentes spoke some Spanish and a smattering of En glish. These Lance delegated to key positions subordinate to white men. At the back of the house Lockwood and Cal Braun commanded five Yaquentes; on the east end of the building five more Yaquentes waited, with Trunk-Strap and Tom Piper near slightly opened windows; at the west end Hub Owen and Luke Homer performed a similar job. Ranged along the front gallery, shielded behind the sandbag barricade, were Lance, Jones, Lanky, Oscar and Huareztjio with the remainder of the Yaquentes. It was at the front of the building Lance expected the attack to strike, as the brush and trees grew much closer in that direction. Lance had asked Katherine to stay within, out of gun range, and act as a messenger working between the gallery and other sections of the house.

  The minutes dragged slowly for the men awaiting the attack. They talked in hushed voices, smoked cigarettes or pipes, always shielding the glow of the burning tobacco from any enemy who might be concealed in the brush beyond the house. Three o’clock came, and then three-thirty. Huareztjio had three spies out in the brush. Now these three returned with word that the thickets were alive with men. Lance and his companions drew deep breaths and waited, their fingers itching to pull triggers.

  Time passed. It wasn’t more than an hour to dawn now. False dawn had already come and faded in the east, but along the distant horizon a faint streak of silvery gray, almost like a mist, was commencing to rise. Now, Lance noticed, the usual calling of night birds was missing from the vicinity of the house. He spoke, low voiced, to the professor crouched at his side behind the sandbags. “It can’t be much longer now.”

  “Quite so, quite,” Jones replied calmly. “Terrific wear on nerves, though, what? Strong desire—for action, y’understand.”

  “You’ll get your fill of action,” Lance stated grimly.

  A few feet away Oscar crunched lemon drops. He wasn’t talking. Lanky spoke to Huareztjio. Certain guttural words of Yaquente passed swiftly along the gallery. Lance wondered if Fletcher would send somebody to learn if the Three-Cross had decided to surrender or fight. Fifteen minutes more brought the dawn nearer.

  XXV

  The Battle at Three-Cross

  The attack came with savage suddenness! The brush on four sides of the house erupted violently with orange fire. Shattering explosions rent the early-morning air. As Lance had expected, the bulk of the attack was concentrated at the front. Bullets thudded into the adobe house walls and ripped into sandbags. Lance caught one low, suppressed moan; that was the only sound uttered. True to Lance’s instructions, the men were holding their fire, awaiting the attackers’ closer approach. A second furious volley came from points nearer the front of the house.

  Lance yelled as loud as he could, “Let ’em have it!”

  Four sides of the building suddenly roared with gunfire. Cries of pain rose from the neighboring brush. Lance yelled exultantly: “We scored that time, fellers!” Rifles and six-shooters cracked madly. The battle was on. Lance sent another shot crashing from his gun. On both sides men were firing and reloading as fast as possible. From time to time Lance caught the booming of six-shooters from the rear of the house, though the attack from that direction was more or less desultory. Lance emptied his gun, loaded and reemptied it he didn’t know how many times. He only realized the weapon was growing hot in his hand. He felt a touch on his arm. Turning, he saw Katherine offering him a loaded Winchester in exchange for the depleted six-gun in his hand. “Good girl,” he grunted. “Better get back in the house though.”

  Even while he jerked the Winchester to his shoulder and levered shot after shot from the barrel in the direction of flashes of fire from the brush he felt her fingers tugging at the cartridges in his belt as she reloaded the hand gun. He heard her cool voice saying something about “angry, droning hornets.” He remembered taking his six-shooter from her, and that was all at the time. She had passed on to her uncle.

  Again and again Lance fired. Every time he glanced along the rim of the sandbags they seemed to be fringed with living flame. It was hot, sweaty work. Powder smoke hung low along the length of the gallery, stinging eyes and throats and nostrils with its acrid fumes. Sharp lances of flame stabbed viciously from the brush and trees. Now and then a man screamed in agony or yelped with sudden pain. By now the attackers were concentrating on the front of the house. Those within emerged to squeeze down among the men lined behind the barrier of sandbags.

  Lance didn’t know how long they’d been fighting, but suddenly he saw that the flashes of gunfire had changed from vivid orange to white and he realized it was daylight. He glanced along the gallery and saw several wounded and dead Yaquentes. Oscar had a bloody gash across the back of one hand; his left cheek bulged with lemon drops. Lanky’s shirt sleeve had been slashed with flying slugs at two places. The building wall behind the fighters was pockmarked as though it had withstood a storm of hailstones. Katherine was moving along the gallery, crouched low, lending such aid as she could to the wounded. Lance yelled at her to get back into the house. He didn’t know what she said in reply. He didn’t have time to listen just then.

  A group of about thirty white-clothed forms under big straw sombr
eros, with bandoleers around their shoulders, came charging out of the brush, their gun muzzles spurting flame and smoke. Lance yelled, “Don’t give an inch, hombres! Pour it on ’em!”

  His men responded with a crashing torrent of lead that all but cut the attackers in two. For a brief instant all motion seemed to stand transfixed in the hideous din, and in that instant Lance caught a picture he never forgot. The attackers appeared to hesitate momentarily, then more than two thirds of them bent suddenly at the middle and pitched forward. Others turned and ran back for the brush. Several were limping frantically from the scene. The Yaquentes along the gallery gave a high-pitched yell and renewed their fire. Only a few of the attackers regained the shelter they had left less than a minute before.

  Powder smoke hung like a gray blanket between the house and the brush. For a minute the firing of the attackers ceased, then burst forth with a renewed fury that caused the men behind the sandbags to crouch low. A steady, unceasing tattoo of flying lead drummed against the house wall. It seemed it would never stop.

  Lance heard the professor’s voice. “Like rain on a tin roof, what?”

  “Some storm,” Lance grunted. He lifted his head a trifle to peer above the sandbags. Three bullets instantly drilled holes into his sombrero crown. Lance dropped down with the maximum of haste but he had seen enough to puzzle him.

  “That one wagon we placed out there”—he frowned—“it’s only about thirty feet away. I figured it might help slow up a rush. I just saw several men break cover from the brush and run to get behind it. I wonder what they’re up to. If they’re figuring on charging us from there they’ll get a surprise——”

  He stopped. An object had been thrown from behind the wagon. Lance saw it skim the top of the sandbags and land among a group of Yaquentes. It looked like a tin can, but…

  And then Lance didn’t see the tin can any more. It abruptly disappeared in a burst of white fire and a deafening detonation. A cloud of thick, yellowish smoke enveloped the gallery. Small chunks of rock exploded viciously in all directions.