“Let’s hope,” said Herndon, “our outfit gets back before that horse reaches Tomlin. How do you reckon Brady Ward’s goin’ to fit into this, once the shootin’ starts? It’s goin’ to be some awkward, Chris and Lou shootin’ at their own daddy.”
“I doubt they’ll have to,” said Ten. “The way he lets Bertha gee and haw him around, I don’t believe he’s got the sand to fight.”
Sundown came and went, and still there was no sign of the Tomlin gang.
“They’re the kind to ambush us,” said Ten, “cutting us down while we sleep. We’re going to give them every reason to think we are sleeping, by spreading our bedrolls beneath the west wall’s overhang, just like we’ve been doing. Use leaves, stones, willow branches, anything to hump your blankets. There won’t be a moon, and in the starlight we can convince them we’re in those bedrolls. Once they open fire, we’ll use their muzzle flashes for targets and cut them down.”
“They won’t be in one bunch,” said Marty. “They’ll split up.”
“I’m counting on that,” said Ten. “I’m expecting some of them to slip in at the upper end of the canyon and the rest at the lower end. They’ll try to box us in a cross fire, but we’re going to be waiting for them. We’ll set up an ambush and cross fire of our own. Marty, you’ll take Chris and Hern to the lower end of the canyon, and I’ll take Wes and Lou to the upper end. I want all of us on the east bank of the river, close to the canyon wall. I look for them all to be on the west bank, since that’s where our camp is. We’ll be facing each other, but firing across the river, so none of us gets caught in our own cross fire. Keep your Colts out of it; use your rifles.”
“It sounds perfect,” said Chris, “but suppose they don’t split up, coming at us from opposite ends of the canyon? They could all do their firing from the east wall of the canyon, like the Comanches did.”
“There was just you and Marty against eleven Comanches,” said Ten, “and it was daylight. They could see you. Tomlin’s bunch would lose the advantage of a cross fire, because the west wall’s overhang would protect us. I can promise you, they won’t risk shooting from the east wall. There’ll be enough starlight to skyline them, making them better targets. Besides, they’d be shooting from a lighter position into a darker one. If your night vision’s going to adjust to the dark, you’ve got to be in that dark.”
It was an impressive argument. There was another question Ten had been half expecting, and Marty came up with it.
“Ten, when they come, Brady Ward may be ridin’ with them. Chris an’ Lou, he’s their daddy—”
“He’s not my daddy,” shouted Lou.
“I’m afraid he is,” said Ten, “whatever wrong he’s done. I won’t fault either of you if you don’t shoot. The odds are in our favor, and I reckon four of us can take six of them.”
“No,” said Chris. “You’re being partial to us because we’re women. If we’re going to be part of this trail drive, then we’ll take the good with the bad. If he rides in here with Tomlin, knowing what’s going to happen to us, then he deserves what Tomlin gets. I’ll fire with the rest of you.”
“So will I,” said Lou. “I even hope old Bertha’s with them. I’d like to shoot her corset strings off.”
It was a long, uncomfortable wait. The west wind caressed them with its chill fingers, making them long for their protected camp. Ten watched the big dipper as hour after slow hour dragged on. He thought of Priscilla, of her promise to him. That night now seemed so long ago, and so far away.
So long had he waited, it took a moment for Ten to identify the first sound of their coming. First light was an hour away, the time when a man’s slumber is deepest, when the faintest sound is audible to a listening ear. Somewhere close, there was the chink of a horse’s hoof against stone.
“They’re coming,” whispered Ten.
They waited, watching three silent shadows climb through the fence, their rough clothing whispering against the cottonwood rails. Just as Ten expected, they crept along the west bank of the Trinity. Quickly they faded into the shadows of the canyon, and on the opposite bank of the river, Ten, Wes, and Lou followed. Once Ten was within rifle range of the deserted camp, he halted. He knelt, his Henry ready. Wes and Lou took their positions on either side of him. Across the river they heard the snick of a hammer being eared back. The outlaws were ready.
“Now,” bawled one of the men they had followed. “Fire!”
There was the roar of rifles as the outlaws fired into the silent camp. Downriver, on the west bank, came the thunder and muzzle flashes of three more rifles. The rest of Tomlin’s bunch were firing into the deserted camp. Beyond the farthest trio of outlaws, from the Trinity’s east bank, Marty, Chris, and Herndon had begun firing.
“They’re across the river!” shouted a frantic voice.
Slugs thudded into tree trunks near Ten’s position as the outlaws fought back. There were cries of pain, and their defense was short-lived. Their firing ceased and there were sounds of hasty retreat. There was sporadic firing toward Marty’s downriver position, and the rest of the outlaw rifles went silent. They too were retreating the way they had come. It was over for now. After the initial burst, there had been few shots from Marty’s position. First light was only minutes away, and there was no movement on the opposite bank of the river. Behind them the east bank was clear. Ten took a chance.
“Marty?”
“Here,” said Marty. “We got at least one of ’em, but we’re hurt. Come a-runnin’.”
Coming abreast of their camp on the other side of the river, Ten could see the bodies of two of the outlaws. But from the tone of Marty’s voice, he feared they had paid too great a price. They were almost to the willows when they saw Marty and Chris kneeling. Slowly they got to their feet, and Ten saw the tragedy in their faces. Chris clung to Marty, silent tears on her cheeks. Maynard Herndon lay on his back, eyes closed, his teeth clenched against the pain. The front of his old denim shirt was soaked with blood.
17
Ten fell to his knees beside the wounded man and began unbuttoning the bloody shirt. Herndon groaned and opened his eyes.
“No,” he said. “No…use. I…I’m done.”
His eyes were open, but the soul, preparing to depart, had taken his sight. Blindly, his right hand moved, and Ten understood. He gripped it hard.
“Ten…where are…you?”
“Hern, pard, I’m here.”
He could feel Herndon’s nails biting into his palm. Herndon’s lips moved but the words wouldn’t come. As his strength ebbed, his voice had weakened to a whisper. Ten leaned closer to hear his last words.
“You…it…it’s been an outfit…to ride the…river with,” Herndon gasped. “Glad…I was part…of it. Uncle Drago…tell him…I cashed in…like a…man….”
Maynard Herndon would never see Indian Territory, but neither would he spend his last days in a sickbed. Ten felt the hand gripping his own relax, and he knew Herndon was gone. Blindly he got to his feet. He sleeved tears from his eyes, and it was a while before he could swallow the lump in his throat and turn to face the others. Their anguish was as great as his own. Tough-talking Lou was taking it the hardest of all. When Ten spoke, his voice was soft.
“Just beyond the head of the canyon there’s a little rise overlooking the river. Wes, will you and Marty make a place for him there? Under the big cypress tree.”
When the grave was ready, they wrapped Maynard Herndon in his blankets and carried him to it. Chris handed Ten a worn Bible.
“It was our mother’s,” she said. “There’s no preacher, but someone must read the word over him. We owe him that.”
It was all Herndon had asked, that and the chance to die with his boots on. But it was the most difficult thing Tenatse Chisholm had ever been called upon to do. How could he speak to God on behalf of Maynard Herndon, when he was himself unworthy? Not knowing how to choose a text, he opened the Bible and began to read the shortest chapter on the page.
“The Lo
rd is my shepherd, I shall not want…”
His voice trembled at first, but as he read, he found himself drawing strength from the words. The eastern horizon was aglow with the rising sun. When he had finished reading, they stood there a moment in silence. Finally he closed the Bible and returned it to Chris.
“Thank you,” he said.
Wordlessly, Marty and Wes began filling the grave. When they returned to their camp, they still had two dead men to contend with.
“I reckon we’ll have to plant these coyotes,” said Ten. “It’s more than they deserve, but if we don’t, they’ll stink up the canyon. While we’re taking care of that, I’d be obliged, Chris, if you and Lou would put on some coffee to boil and see to breakfast.”
It was a grim task, the sooner finished the better. They buried the two outlaws in a single grave and returned to camp. None of them were very hungry, but they needed the coffee, finishing it in silence. They all knew what had to be done; they were waiting for Ten to give the word. He did.
“Saddle up,” he said. “Bring your rifles and plenty of shells. We’re going to finish this Tomlin bunch before we rope another longhorn. Chris, you and Lou lead out. Take us to Brady Ward’s place. Since he wasn’t with Tomlin’s gang, I expect he’s in trouble. Tomlin’s the kind to use him and the woman against us. I look to find them holed up at Ward’s cabin.”
“We’ve cut into their ranks pretty deep,” said Wes. “Maybe they just rode out.”
“No,” said Ten, “they’ll be there. They’re on the defensive, but Tomlin won’t run. You gunned down that pard of his yesterday morning, and you saw how quick he came after us. We cut down two more of his boys this morning, and he’s not sure they even nicked any of us. I hope they are still here. I don’t aim for a man of them to leave Texas alive, and it’ll save us the trouble of trackin’ the bastards down.”
They approached the Ward cabin cautiously, reining up just short of rifle range. There was no sign of life.
“There’s a poor excuse for a barn behind the house,” said Lou. “Not much more than shelter for the horses.”
“Ward,” shouted Ten, “if you’re in there, come out. We need to talk.”
“Ward ain’t feelin’ good. He ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
“That’s Bodie Tomlin,” said Lou.
“Tomlin,” shouted Ten, “You know why we’re here. We’ve got no fight with Ward or the woman. Let them go.”
“Ward stays where he is,” bawled Tomlin.
“No,” cried Brady Ward in a quavering voice. “No!”
The door was flung open and he stumbled down the rickety steps, falling to hands and knees. He staggered to his feet.
“Come on,” said Ten. “Move in close enough to cover him!”
In range, they cut loose with their rifles, careful to shoot over Ward’s head. He came toward them in a shambling run, close enough until they could see the sweat of fear and desperation on his face. There was a single rifle shot from the cabin, and Ward seemed to pause, suspended in midair. Then he fell facedown, a growing circle of crimson on the back of his shirt. With a broken cry, Chris was out of her saddle, but Marty caught her before she could run to the fallen Ward. Slugs were whipping the air above their heads now.
“Fall back,” shouted Ten.
“You murdering bastards!” shouted Lou.
Once they were out of rifle range, the firing ceased.
“Wes,” said Ten, “take Lou, and the two of you cover the back of the house. Let none of them escape. When I figure a way to smoke the coyotes out, I’ll find you. Take shelter in the barn, if you can, and loose all their horses.”
Marty had calmed Chris, and Ten turned to her.
“Is there anything at the rear of the house, besides a back door? Any windows?”
“No windows,” said Chris, “but there’s cutouts along the back wall for rifles, in case of Indian attacks.”
“Damn it,” said Marty, “they can stand us off all day, and then sneak out after dark. By the time it’s dark enough for us to set fire to the place without gettin’ shot, it’ll be too late to do any good.”
“There’s a way out of the house,” said Chris. “It’s a tunnel that comes out in the barn. There’s just room enough to get through it, and that’s on your hands and knees.”
“If it’s a way out of the house,” said Ten, “it’s also a way in. But it could also be a death trap, if Tomlin knows of it. Where does it come out in the house?
“Tomlin won’t know about it,” said Chris. “The shack was here when we came, and so was the tunnel. It was me and Lou that found it. When Daddy brought that woman here, we were so…so disgusted, we never told him about it. There’s just a big, hollowed-out place under the house. The kitchen is kind of long, and there’s a sack curtain across one end, making a pantry. Lou and me took our baths there. Part of the floor lifts out, and we spread a blanket over it. We thought whoever built the cabin must have been pretty scared of the Comanches.”
“He had every right to be,” said Ten. “Chris, you’ve just told me how we’re goin’ to salt down this bunch of coyotes. Marty, Wes, and me are going into that house, through the tunnel. We’ll have to depend on you and Lou to cover the front and back doors. Leave your horse here, and move up close enough to throw some occasional lead against that front door. We’ll have Lou doin’ the same thing at the back door. Make all the noise you can, so they can’t hear anything else.”
Chris swallowed hard, looking at Marty. Ten knew what she was thinking. They were going against four outlaws, and even with the element of surprise in their favor, they might be seriously hurt or killed. Ten turned away as Marty held the girl close and spoke to her.
Ten and Marty circled wide, well out of sight of the cabin. Leaving their horses in the woods, behind the barn, they walked the rest of the way. Lou seemed shaken, following the death of her father, and was as reluctant as Chris to have them enter the house.
“Please, please, be careful,” she urged. “We’ve lost so…much today, and I…I just can’t bear any more.”
They left Lou with the same instructions Ten had given Chris. When they were ready, Ten turned to Marty and Wes.
“We’ll leave our rifles. This is Colt work.”
Lou took them to the tunnel exit, and Chris had been right. There was barely room for a man to crawl, and if there was a cave-in, they were in big trouble. They tied bandannas over their mouths and noses, lest they suck up the dust of their movement. The air in the tunnel was oppressive and stifling hot. Sweat dripped off Ten’s nose and soaked his shirt. There were places where dirt had fallen into the tunnel. They were forced to their bellies, snakelike, until the obstruction was past. Just when Ten was becoming light-headed for the lack of good air, he all but fell into the hollowed-out area under the house. For long minutes they sat there, taking long gulps of the blessed, fresh air. They could hear the firing of distant rifles. Chris and Lou were doing their part. Then, to their surprise, they heard a woman’s voice.
“Bodie, why’n hell didn’t we just ride out of here? For God’s sake, there’s Shreveport, Beaumont, Houston—”
“Nobody makes a fool out of Bodie Tomlin. Nobody, you hear?”
There was a metallic clang as a slug struck something in the kitchen. Bertha cursed, and started whining to Tomlin.
“Git back there in the other room,” shouted Tomlin. “Slide your fat carcass under the bed and stay there!”
There was a scraping of chairs. Their vision had adjusted to the half dark, and they saw a makeshift, five-rung ladder. Ten took the lead, pausing when his head touched the floor of the pantry. It was a dangerous move. If he was discovered, with Marty and Wes trapped behind him, he was a dead man. Taking a deep breath, he put his shoulders to the wooden floor. When it moved, dust sifted down into his face and he fought back a sneeze. He lifted the panel enough to get a grip on two sides of it. It snagged on the blanket that had covered it, and as he raised the wooden panel, the blanket descended on h
im like a shroud. He shoved the whole mess forward, praying he wouldn’t dislodge something breakable. Then his head was free and he found himself facing a bare wall. The sack curtain was behind him, as was the rest of the kitchen. Gently, he leaned the wooden panel against the wall, stepping into the pantry, making way for Marty and Wes.
When they were ready, Ten shoved aside the sack curtain and they were in the narrow kitchen. There was only an open doorway to the front room and what had served as a bedroom, and it was their misfortune to have Bertha spot them before they could fire a shot. The big woman screeched like a gut-shot bobcat, rolling off the bed onto the floor. Although taken by surprise, the outlaws reacted quickly. A slug slammed into the wall above Ten’s head, and he killed the man who had fired. A second outlaw was down, but so was Marty, the left side of his face and head bloody. Next to the fireplace Bodie Tomlin fired from behind a pile of wood. One of his shots struck Wes’s Colt, sending it clattering to the floor. Ten’s Colt clicked on empty, and Tomlin got to his feet with a wolfish grin. His shot dug a fiery path across Ten’s ribs, under his left arm. Beneath the waistband of his Levi’s, Ten carried Maynard Herndon’s Colt. He drew the weapon and shot Bodie Tomlin twice, just above his belt buckle.
Ten turned just in time to find Bertha in the bedroom door, leveling a shotgun at him. He shot her twice, and as she went down, the shotgun tore a hat-sized hole in the loft above. Marty was sitting up, his bandanna against his bloodied head. Wes was looking ruefully at his mangled Colt.
“Here,” said Ten. “This was Herndon’s Colt. It’s yours now.”
Once the shooting had stopped, there was the sound of galloping horses. Chris and Lou could no longer bear the suspense.
The Chisholm Trail Page 19