Savage Gun (A Piccadilly Publishing Western Book 13)

by Neil Hunter

  Seven

  The Apaches had been watching the group of riders ever since they’d crossed the Grande. They had followed their progress towards the Hatchets with great interest, waiting for the right moment to attack. Although the Apaches outnumbered the whites they remained cautious. The Apaches were waging a war of survival and they could ill afford to lose a single man. One of their scouts, a seasoned warrior, had been missing for longer than usual and Chana, the leader of the band, had feelings that told him that the scout would not be returning.

  Strange things had been happening concerning the whites they followed. One of the women with the group had broken away from the rest and had ridden back the way the party had come. From the way it had happened Chana had decided that the women with the group were there against their will. Not that it made any difference. When his warriors attacked the whites, the men would be killed and the women would become captives of the Apaches. Chana favored white women. He had taken them before. He already had two sons by white women. And he would have more.

  Moving away from the broken rim of rock where he had been watching the distant riders, Chana rejoined his waiting warriors. They listened for his word and Chana knew that they were eager to attack the little group of whites. But he wanted to wait a while longer. Until he was sure of the right time to attack. Chana had lived a long time by choosing when to fight and when to wait. There were those of his warriors who would have mounted up without thought to attack the whites and some would have died. Chana saw no honor in death under those circumstances. A dead warrior did not bring home spoils to The People—the old Apache name for the tribes. The Apache needed weapons. He needed food. Ammunition. Horses. A warrior who was dead could not provide any of these things.

  ‘Chana, why do we sit like old women?’ asked a young warrior, Nechtay by name. He was proud and fearless, reckless even, and Chana could see that he was bursting to begin the chase.

  The time is not right, Nechtay.’ Chana strode by the scowling young Apache. He had spoken and he was the leader and it was enough.

  An older Apache, squatting patiently in the dirt, cleaning his worn, single-shot rifle, raised his brown face as Chana approached. Kenchay had been with Chana since they had been naked children playing war games. Over many years and through many battles they had ridden side by side. Both had developed an instinct for knowing what the other thought and Kenchay knew now that Chana would make the right choice. He would say when the time was right to attack, how the attack should be carried out, and any warrior who did not agree was a fool. Of many leaders Kenchay had known Chana was the one who had lost the least of his warriors.

  ‘Nechtay is a child,’ Kenchay said softly.

  Chana’s eyes flickered towards his old friend. A ghost of a smile played around the corners of his mouth. ‘He will grow.’

  A grunt of disbelief came from Kenchay. ‘If he lives enough years, Chana. Nechtay learns the rules too slowly. One day they may yet kill him!’

  Kenchay stood up suddenly and pointed into the far distance. A faint curl of dust drifted into the sky. He and Chana crossed to the far side of the high bluff on which they waited and watched the horse and rider materialize out of the heat haze.

  Sometime later a lean young Apache rode in and slid from his pony. He was the second scout Chana had sent out.

  ‘Did you find Torrio?’ Chana asked.

  The Apache nodded. ‘He is dead. One white killed him. One who is following the whites we have been watching. I think he is a white lawman.’

  ‘The woman who fled—did you see her?’ Kenchay asked.

  The scout nodded again. ‘She is with the killer of Torrio.’ He pointed back in the direction of the Grande. ‘Both of them are following the ones we have been watching.’

  Kenchay glanced towards Nechtay. ‘The wisdom is in the waiting. Now we will have them all, Nechtay. Listen to your elders and learn what makes a wise man—or a fool.’

  Nechtay leapt to his feet, anger darkening his face. ‘Enough! I tire of listening to you, old man. Your words are foolish.’

  Without a word Chana crossed over to where Nechtay stood. He ignored the rifle brandished in the young Apache’s hands and suddenly he struck Nechtay across the face. The blow knocked Nechtay to his knees, blood spilling from a cut lip.

  ‘Must we fight amongst ourselves?’ Chana said, his anger spilling over. ‘The People are fighting a war to stay as one. We must learn patience. Caution. There are many whites. Their weapons are many and better than our own. If we are to win the fight we must be as one. Do you believe I want to sit by and wait? Have I not been a fighter since I was old enough to sit a pony? But I know that now even the smallest of victories can mean the difference between our women and children living or dying. There is no time now for the old ways. We fight now to stay alive, not to make the legends of our fathers.’

  There was a silence. The Apaches knew that Chana spoke the truth. He was doing what had to be done and they were prepared to follow him without question. They looked upon Nechtay with disgust. He had made a fool of himself. And he had spoken out of turn against Kenchay. Nechtay would have to erase this mistake himself. There would be no forgiveness until he had proved his worth. Every warrior in the band knew this—and none more so than Nechtay.

  ‘Soon they will be in the place of silence,’ Chana said, referring to the desolate canyon-country at the base of the Hatchet range. ‘Only then will we show ourselves. Then we can attack and they will have no place to run.’

  The Apaches nodded their agreement. Chana had planned well. The whites would be trapped in the maze of canyons and ravines. In that place, where the sun’s heat trapped itself amongst the bleached rocks there was no water, no protection from the cruel heat. When the Apaches attacked the battle would already be half won. Even Nechtay, sitting alone some distance away from the rest, saw the wisdom, and began to realize just why Chana was such a respected warrior.

  Eight

  By mid-morning the foothills of the Hatchets lay all around them. Strata of many-hued rock rose above them in weathered layers. It was a weirdly atmospheric place, almost alien. The dust of ages lay everywhere. Drifted sand had formed fantastic shapes, built up over countless decades. Only the tracks left by Ben Shelby’s bunch revealed the presence of other humans.

  Yet at the back of Matthew Cord’s mind a small voice nagged him, telling him they were not alone. Somewhere, behind them maybe, or above them on some hidden ridge, he knew that there were Apaches. He’d seen nothing, nor had he heard anything, but he knew. He knew it for a fact as he also knew that there was no turning back. If the Apaches had them spotted it was as easy to carry on as it was to try and return. The Apache would show when they were good and ready—it made no odds when that time might be.

  Cord didn’t bother to mention the fact to Kate. She would know when it happened and then she would do as he said. If he’d learned nothing else about her he had found that she had the sense to obey an order from someone who knew what he was talking about. A fleeting memory of their time together flashed through his mind. A very special kind of woman was this Kate Hanna, he decided, remembering her roused passions, the slumbering desires that had come awake with a vengeance.

  Cord reined in suddenly. He’d spotted a brief metallic flash on a ridge some quarter mile ahead of them. Somebody with a rifle? He wasn’t sure. There was no point in taking any chances. He slid his own rifle free and jacked a shell into the chamber.

  ‘Behind that rock,’ he told Kate and she turned her horse quickly. Cord followed her and an instant later the distant whip crack sound of a shot split the silence.

  ‘Have they seen us?’ Kate asked breathlessly. She had taken the reins of both horses, leaving Cord free to scan the distant rocky ridges.

  He didn’t answer. Someone had spotted them and it angered him. If Shelby had realized he was being followed it was going to make Cord’s job that much harder. He’d expected it to happen sooner or later. He would have liked it to have b
een later. The closer he could have got to Shelby the better he would have liked it. Still, he thought, there was no profit in worrying over what had happened. He watched the spot where the shot had come from. He saw nothing more. No movement, no reflection from a rifle barrel. If he guessed correctly that shot had been a warning, nothing more. A good man with a rifle could have hit his target from that distance. Of course it was possible that the rifleman had been a bad shot but Cord didn’t believe that.

  He took his reins from Kate and swung back into the saddle. He looked down at her. ‘You staying?’

  Her eyes flashed angrily. ‘What do you think?’ She flung herself on to her horse with an impatient motion.

  Matthew Cord smiled. She would have made a hell of a man, he thought. Then he decided he was glad she wasn’t a man. Last night had shown she was all woman—and he preferred her that way.

  They moved out again. The trail wound slowly but surely into the high country. The horses picked their way along unfamiliar ground. Underfoot the dust lay thick and it rose around them in gritty clouds. It covered them. It got into their eyes and mouths, stinging and making their flesh itch. It was hot too and the clammy heat added to their discomfort.

  The way suddenly leveled out. A broad, near-flat expanse of ground before them. At the far side a high cliff of rock rose many hundreds of feet, a sheer, unclimbable wall of weathered stone. At the base of this great cliff stood the ruins of some long-forgotten Spanish mission. There were many of these ruined structures dotting the Southwest. Constructed during the Spanish explorations of the country they now stood empty and forgotten, though they often provided shelter for a passing traveler. Weathered and crumbling they were a monument to the tenacity of the people who had done so much to open up the early Southwest, who had left behind much that had become part of its culture.

  As Cord and Kate rode onto the flatland she suddenly lifted an arm, an excited exclamation coming from her.

  ‘Cord, look,’ she said.

  He’d already seen the group of riders making for the mission. The Shelby bunch! But Cord’s attention was abruptly distracted by something else. Off to the far side of the flatland, coming down off a high ridge, he had seen another bunch of riders.

  Apaches.

  There was no mistaking their appearance. The distinctive clothing, the lithe ease in the way they drove their sturdy ponies down the rocky slopes. Nor was there any mistaking their intentions.

  ‘Kate, move out!’ Cord yelled. ‘Head for the mission, and fast!’

  She looked at him as if he was crazy. ‘But Shelby’s there. What are you...?’ Her voice trailed off as she saw beyond his shoulder. Her eyes went wide with terror for a moment and a gasp burst from her. ‘Oh God!’

  She needed no further bidding. Digging in her heels she drove her horse across the open space, towards the mission. Cord was right behind her, his rifle in one hand. He held off from firing, concentrating on getting to the mission.

  Behind them he could hear the thunder of the Apache ponies, the wild yells of their riders. Every so often a shot rang out but the bullets were wild. He heard shots from another direction. Shelby’s guns were opening up. Cord leaned low across his horse’s neck, feeling its powerful muscles working as it took him closer to the crumbling adobe walls of the mission. Kate was almost there. He felt a moment of dread as her horse lost its stride and almost stumbled, but she hauled it upright again, pushing it on, and moments later she was through the gap in the low wall surrounding the mission that served as a gateway. Cord followed. He flung himself from his saddle, letting his horse run on into the compound.

  For a time there was confusion. Dust billowed thickly as riderless horses milled about. Voices shouted orders back and forth and all the time the Apaches were closing in on the mission.

  ‘Get to the wall,’ Cord yelled. ‘Get to the damn wall. Wait ‘til they’re almost on us then open up. And don’t waste any shots. There’re too many of them.’

  For some reason his command had the desired effect. Shelby and his men lined the low wall, rifle’s butts jammed into position. Cord took his Colt and tossed it to Kate.

  ‘Give the women your handguns,’ he yelled.

  Ben Shelby, a few yards along the wall turned and grinned at Cord. He seemed amused by the sudden turn of events.

  ‘Welcome to the club, mister. I’m damned if I like it but it seems to me we’re stuck on the same side. For now.’

  Matthew Cord’s face was hostile, his eyes cold. ‘Yeah. But don’t figure it to last too long, Shelby, I came to take you and your bunch in and I aim to do it one way or another.’

  Ben Shelby tensed and for a moment it seemed that he was about to brace Cord. But then there was a ragged burst of gunfire, bullets chewing raw splinters of adobe from the top of the low wall as the band of Apaches led by Chana made their first run at the mission.

  Nine

  The stench of burned powder filled the air. A ragged exchange of gunshots volleyed back and forth between the opposing parties. Bullets ripped at crumbling adobe, chewed rotted slivers from weathered wood. Geysers of dirt erupted into the dusty air. Horses shrilled, hooves pounded. Men shouted, voices mingled in English and guttural Apache.

  And as suddenly as it had begun the first attack was over. The Apache fell back, well out of rifle-range. Rifles were reloaded and wounds were tended to.

  Behind the mission walls the small band of whites sat back and breathed for the first time since the conflict had begun. There were minor bullet-grazes, powder-burns and jangled nerves.

  A horse was down, thrashing wildly as its blood pumped thickly from a severed artery. Matthew Cord walked over and put it out of its misery with a single shot.

  He noticed that the women were grouped around a still form on the hard ground. Kate glanced up at his silent approach. Her face, grimed, and red-eyed from burned powder, was blank, vacant. Tears streaked her cheeks. She moved aside and Cord was able to see the crumpled form of a young girl sprawled loosely on the ground. There was a jagged bullet-wound over her left breast and her pale face still held the expression of shock that must have come with the impact of the bullet.

  ‘Her name was Louise Grant,’ Kate said, an odd defiance in her voice. ‘And she was nineteen years old.’ She stood up and stared at him angrily. ‘Damn this country.’

  Morgan LeGrand wandered over. He was reloading the rifle he carried.

  ‘Pity, that,’ he said. ‘She’d have made one of them Indians a damn good squaw!’

  Cord raised his eyes to LeGrand’s face. Without effort he smashed the butt of his own rifle across LeGrand’s jaw, driving the big man to the ground. LeGrand hit hard, stunned, and he had the wisdom to stay where he was, though the hate showed clearly in his eyes. A bright stream of blood coursed down his face and soaked into the collar of his dirty shirt.

  ‘Hey!’ Isha Cooley snatched up his loaded revolver and swung it at Cord.

  ‘Isha, leave it.’ Ben Shelby’s voice cut across the mission’s dusty plaza with a whip crack sharpness. He placed himself between Cooley and Matthew Cord. ‘We got enough on fighting those damn Apaches. Ain’t nothing but pure foolishness to go round blowing holes in each other.’

  ‘That bastard just dropped Morg,’ Cooley protested.

  It was LeGrand himself who spoke next, climbing unsteadily to his feet. He touched the tender spot on his jaw and glared across at Cord. ‘Any settlin’ to be done I’ll do it myself,’ he said. ‘You be sure, mister, I’ll do it too. Ain’t no man lays to Morgan LeGrand and gets away with it.’

  Matthew Cord let a slow, cold smile touch his lips. ‘You talk tough, LeGrand, but I been somewhere a man like you wouldn’t last out the first day.’

  ‘Hell, I knew I recognized that big son-of-a-bitch,’ Eli Colton said suddenly. ‘Shit, Ben, ain’t you figured it? He’s Matt Cord. That U.S. Marshal who did for Roan Chantry. Hell, it was in all the damn papers. They trussed him up like a turkey and put him in Yuma Pen.’

  Shelby stare
d at Cord intently. ‘Well I’ll be. You’re right, Eli. It is Cord.’ He moved closer, stroking his unshaven jaw. ‘So what the hell are you doing out here chasin’ us like some avengin’ angel? You bust out, Cord?’

  Matthew Cord laughed softly. ‘No, Shelby, they let me out. Figured I’d got the right idea after all. Set a killer to catch a killer—or a pack in your case.’

  Eli Colton yelled angrily. ‘He killed Sam. He’s the one done it back in the horseshit town.’

  ‘They must pay you pretty well,’ Shelby remarked.

  ‘Higher by the bunch,’ Cord answered and saw Morgan LeGrand tense.

  They had no more time to pursue the matter. One of the girls let out a scared yell. Heads turned in time to see the Apaches making their second run.

  ‘Let ’em get in close.’ Cord shouted. ‘Don’t waste any shots.’

  ‘Who the hell put you in charge?’ Eli Colton snarled.

  Ben Shelby cut him short. ‘He’s talkin’ sense, Eli. We haven’t got a damn wagonload of ammunition back there. Let the bastards see the end of the bullet before you fire it.’

  The Apaches cut across the dusty ground in a ragged bunch. They were wider-spaced this time and they too held their fire until they were almost up to the mission wall.

  Both sides seemed to fire at once. A solid wall of gunfire erupted. The sound was terrible. The crash of guns. The screams of frightened horses. The heavy stench of burned powder. Brass shell-cases littered the ground. Dust boiled up in choking clouds, mixed with powdered adobe that exploded in sharp splinters each time a bullet struck.

  Two Apaches breached the wall, ponies clearing the defenders’ heads by inches. Out of the corner of his eye Cord saw Morgan LeGrand calmly turn and shoot one of them off his mount. LeGrand’s bullets took the screaming buck between the shoulder-blades, ripping bloody holes as they emerged from his naked chest.