Littleman held up five fingers.
“Five horses? Good,” Thunderhawk said. He grunted, looking off to the timber. “This white man took the life of my brother, so I shall take his horses. He will lose them one by one until he slinks on the ground before us like a wolf, then he will lose the greatest of his possessions. His life.”
***
“Look!” Coyote said to the horseman, Running Dog, raising his arm to point through a break in the pines.
“I see him,” Running Dog replied, glancing at Thunderhawk to see if he was watching. Through the break Littleman could be seen squatting in the shadow of a huge boulder perching precariously at the crest of a sharp ridge. He was intent on something down in the canyon ahead. Below the summit stood his chestnut pony, head hanging and reins trailing. Littleman rose and mounted his pony, then seeing the war party approaching he wheeled the chestnut in a tight circle, the signal for “Enemy in sight.” Thunderhawk leaned forward, kicking his pony into a canter through the pines to bring him out on the ridge, the others following.
Before the black came to a halt, the chief was off its back and crouched in the shade of the rock. After a few seconds he beckoned the boy forward. “Is this the man?” Thunderhawk asked.
Soldier raised himself on his elbows and peered over the crest to consider the wide timbered canyon between the two peaks where a rider leading three laden horses and a pack mule crossed a glade.
“No.”
“No?”
“No. The white man I spoke of wears the hair on his face and it is marked with the grey of many summers.”
Thunderhawk grunted his dissatisfaction and looked away, but he had noticed Soldier was still staring at the rider through the breaks. He jerked his head, questioning.
“This white man rides the other’s horse.”
The chief’s head swivelled, interest sparking in his eyes. “Tell it,” he commanded. Soldier turned his gaze to the war chief then back at the rider below.
“The lineback dun he rides is the riding horse of the white man with the big killing gun. The second pony in the line is the bay with the black ears that Swift-Foot made moon eyes at.”
“You speak straight?”
“Straight as an arrow,” Crowfoot interrupted, having come to crouch next to them. “There had been much work done at the white man’s camp. The scratching was deep in the earth where the yellow iron had been taken out. These white men, these fat-takers, worship it. A strong man must have done all that work. That rider down there is too slender. He has the physique of a boy, and his clothes are not those of a dirt-scratcher, yet he is the one with the sacks on his ponies.”
“Perhaps they contain bullets and flour, maybe even some candy,” Soldier asked hopefully.
“Black medicine too,” Thunderhawk suggested. “Coffee. He might even carry whiskey.”
“Firewater!” Crowfoot spat. “I think not. I think he has stolen the yellow iron from the other white man, and as he rides the two horses Soldier saw before, I think he has killed the one we seek.”
At the mention of his vengeance being taken away, Thunderhawk grew angry. “We shall see. We shall have much fun with this fat-taker before he dies. If he has robbed me of my revenge, then he will pay. After all, it is enough that he should die for having a white skin, for he is as worthless as all the others. If his sacks are full of the yellow iron then he is truly foolish. He shall die. I have spoken.”
The warrior chief rose and walked proudly back to his pony, his war bonnet swaying regally in the breeze.
***
“Sweet Jesus,” Shuck Alison whispered under his breath. “They’re lined out like crows on a dead tree, fahcrissake.”
The flicker of movement in the corner of his eye had caused him to turn his head a fraction and squint up at the canyon rim. His back stiffened when he saw them. Seven Indians still as stone, sitting their ponies as they looked down on him, skylined against the crest of the ridge for all the world to see. He knew enough about Indians to know if you saw them it was because they wanted you to see them. Without letting them know he was aware of their presence he kept the dun gelding walking straight ahead.
They were well out of range but he dropped his right hand slowly down the blind side of the horse and tugged his Henry rifle loose from the scabbard. The burnished wood of the rifle butt was little reassurance but he eased it up until the barrel lay over the saddle horn, aimed negligently up the slope.
Above him the Kiowas remained motionless as he continued on his way, the ore laden pack animals strung out behind him. For a moment, as he cut through a grove of cedars, his silent watchers were invisible, but when he emerged on the other side he saw they had swung their ponies and had begun to walk along the ridge, keeping pace with him. All was silent, the solitude broken only by the horses’ footfalls and the wind whispering among the trees. His whole body was tense, nerves pulling taut until they were screaming for the release action would bring. Any action. He wished to God they would just disappear behind the ridge and vanish from the face of the earth but each time he crossed a clearing they were there, his silent outriders.
Then it came.
The mountain air was split by the howl of a war cry, a bloodcurdling scream of hate and defiance that brought terror to his heart. The pretence of ignorance shattered, he turned his face to the rim and openly watched them. They were all yelling now, rifles raised as they kicked their ponies into a gallop.
An icy hand clutched at his vitals and Alison dug his spurs savagely into the gelding’s flanks. He bent low over the horse’s neck and the mane lashed his face. Hooves pounded, drawing nearer. He glanced up the slope and saw the first puffs of powder smoke, then felt the whip of passing bullets.
He screamed to cover their war cries and began to use the Henry to slap the dun’s rump, spurs raking mercilessly.
CHAPTER 10
The Kiowas were closing fast.
Alison knew he hadn’t a chance of outrunning the lightly loaded Indian ponies. He had to find somewhere to make a stand. He urged the dun into the trees, branches ripping at his flesh. With savage screams echoing in his wind torn ears he saw it.
The answer to a prayer.
A cluster of tumbled rocks heaped in a clearing, a hollow circle in the middle. He wrenched the dun’s head and the horse sidestepped in full gallop, almost throwing him from the saddle. The packhorses turned behind him then the dun was jumping the rock wall. Up and over, then he stood up in the stirrups and hauled back on the reins with all his strength. On its haunches, the lineback skidded across the earth to come up against the far wall. Alison was out of the saddle even before the horse could gain its feet. The packhorses were coming over, clumsy and overloaded, crowding into the small clearing. They were nervous and excited, milling and blowing like stampeded steers. He pushed his way through to the rim where he had jumped the wall. The waist high boulders would provide cover. He chose a notch and crouched, levering a shell into the Henry’s breech.
The Kiowas broke through the timber ten yards distant. Their long braids were flying in the wind, mouths harsh gashes in paint-smeared faces as they yelled. Close enough. The Henry barked. A brave tumbled from his saddle, still screaming. Realizing what had happened, the Kiowas halted their headlong flight and the clearing became a confusion of rearing ponies as the riders sawed at the reins, fighting to gain control. The better of the horsemen began to throw down shots on the rocks in a bid to cover those who were having trouble. The dead brave’s horse only added to the bedlam, charging back and forth, unsure of the safest direction to take.
Now the fighting had begun in earnest, the fear was gone and Alison found a calm had descended on him. He was doing what he did best. He worked the Henry’s action smoothly, movements automatic and paced by experience. The rifle butt never once left his shoulder as he placed shot after shot into the milling Indians. With the pall of gun smoke he could not be sure if he hit anything, but he continued to squeeze off shots. One to the right. One
centre. One to the left. When the magazine was exhausted and the hammer clicked onto the empty chamber he drew his Colt and took up where he had left off. Before the gun was empty the clearing was deserted but for the dead brave.
Squinting into the dust and smoke, Alison laid the Colt within reach and turned his attention to the Henry, his eyes never leaving the scene of the fight. Knowing fingers fed fresh shells from his cartridge belt into the rifle’s magazine. Behind him, his horses milled nervously, ears up as they blew.
His mouth was working silently. The surprise had been good while it lasted, but it was over. One minute they had the edge and the next you did. Now would come the hard bit. The creeping and the sly fighting, and Alison had no more respect for any man than the Indian at that game. Some said the Apache were best at it, others the Comanche, but he was wise enough to figure they were all pretty damn good at it. The Kiowas were altogether sharp, and now he’d had a good look he’d decided they were definitely Kiowas. God knows how, this far west, but Kiowas they were. He had not believed Anne Marie at the time, but now he was beginning to think there was something to Morgan Clay’s dreams after all.
***
“He is dead, our Buffalo Medicine Man. I saw him shot down like an eagle in flight. That is the end of our good medicine,” Coyote said miserably.
“I fear you are right,” Running-Dog agreed, leaning round the pine trunk to glance at the fat-taker’s position. He was still there, the barrel of his repeating rifle visible in the notch in the rock wall. He ducked back into cover. “Now what?” He shuffled uncomfortably when he saw Littleman crabbing through the undergrowth towards them. The scout squatted, occasionally peering across the clearing.
“We have to retrieve the Buffalo Man’s body before we renew the attack or our medicine will be no good.”
Running-Dog grunted. “Coyote and I will do it.”
They came from the timber, each Kiowa riding with only one foot in the stirrup, hanging to the sides of their ponies. Running-Dog clung to the left side of his, and Coyote on the right side, shielded as they hung in the centre.
Alison saw them coming and began to work the Henry, hoping for a hit, but all he could see of the riders was their hands at the ponies’ necks as they galloped across the glade. They came skittering to a halt on either side of the fallen Indian and dropped to the ground. He swore viciously, angry a pony stood in the way. He decided to drop it. He squeezed the trigger and the animal went down in a screaming heap of thrashing legs. He worked the Henry’s lever and lined his sights on the chest of the startled brave stooping over the fallen Kiowa. Aim steady, he ignored the bullets chipping rock splinters on either side of him. He began to squeeze when a howl came from the timber on his right. His target’s head swiveled and before the Henry’s hammer dropped he found himself swinging unconsciously, swearing bitterly because he knew he could not stop himself. The movement complete, the bullet went wild into the pines.
Desperately, he levered another shell into the breech as a pony lunged from the timber to make a run across the clearing. A young brave barely more than a boy, astride a roan mustang, a shiny new Winchester in his hands. The mouth of the barrel flamed and Alison jumped back, cheek gouged by a rock sliver. Blinking, he regained control of his reflexes and brought his rifle to bear, but the rider was already gone. Scowling, he saw too the two other braves were scurrying into the timber, dragging their dead comrade between them. He fired after them uselessly. It was too late.
The gunfire petered out. Alison checked himself and retreated behind the rocks. He was angry. He could have shot another two as easy as bagging turkeys if the boy hadn’t interrupted. Besides, he should have ignored the war cry. Christ, he must be getting old if something as simple as that put him off.
He reloaded the Henry’s magazine and felt through his pockets. The best he could come up with was a half-smoked cigar. He shoved it into the corner of his mouth and struck a match, sucking gratefully on the pungent smoke. He pushed his hat back and passed a hand across his forehead. It was covered with sweat. Relax while you can, he thought. The best is yet to come. He inhaled deeply, then coughed. He had forgotten how strong a half-smoked cigar butt could be.
He swore again and ferreted inside his shirt. His tormentor was a fat louse which he cracked between his fingernails, then rubbed the remains on the grass. The bugs were on the move again. As he started to think about it, the itching grew steadily worse until it was so intense he had to move. He thought he may as well get a drink of water while he had the opportunity. Anything rather than sit still and let the bugs creep all over him.
He stood up, careful to use the rocks as cover, then pushed between the packhorses to reach the canteen. Frowning, he peered round the flank of the mule again. Something was badly wrong.
The lineback dun was gone.
***
“If we fight again in this place it will be the worse for us.”
“Why should that be?” Thunderhawk asked his friend. Crowfoot looked up from the dead Buffalo medicine man at his feet and waited a moment before he spoke.
“Because he was slain here, there will be a bad spirit. If we continue to fight in this place no good will come of it. Our own personal medicine will not be powerful enough to combat the spirit. We will have to fight him in another place.”
Thunderhawk made a face. “My friend Crowfoot has an answer for everything.”
“If we leave after we have sent the Buffalo medicine man across the trail of stars, the white man will think he has a chance. He knows he will be outfought if he stays, so he will run.”
Thunderhawk considered the logic then nodded. “We will make sure he sees us leave. Then when the sun rises we will hunt again.”
***
He heard the ponies first. A shrill whinny brought him up to the notch just as the Kiowas burst from the trees and crossed the clearing. Each one made a fast run past him and disappeared towards the ridge where he had first seen them.
He was so astonished he did not open fire. It had to be a trick. They were trying to make him think they had abandoned the attack. They would expect him to ride out and then they would close in again. No dice. That would make it too simple for them, especially as they had gone to great pains to show him they were leaving, all five of them. No, he would not be taken in by that.
But there was a slender chance the withdrawal was genuine. He had heard Indians had given up attacks when it seemed they held all the aces. And actually showing they were leaving was a mark of respect for a man’s courage and fighting ability. Okay, he had killed one brave and held the rest off, besides being cheated of another two. Hardly an achievement worthy of respect. Besides, the fight had seemed half hearted somehow, and there had to be a reason. Perhaps they’d just figured he was easy meat and when they discovered he wasn’t they’d decided to forget it.
What was going on? Were they genuine or just being plain Indian foxy?
He decided to wait until dusk, then if there were no signs of life he would make a run for it. He was angry about the gelding too. One of the Kiowas must have sneaked round behind him and stolen the horse while he was busy pigeon shooting at the rescue party. Damn shame, the lineback had been good stock, and more important, he would have to spread one of the loads among the others so he would have a horse to ride. No saddle either. He’d thrown Morgan’s saddle away and improvised a packsaddle to carry the ore.
He mumbled to himself. So what if he did get a few lousy blisters? He would still have all the gold, wouldn’t he?
***
Littleman crouched patiently in the long shadow of a black pine. After the retreat Thunderhawk had told him to return and watch the fat-taker’s camp while the rest of the war party circled east to lay in wait. The scout had tethered his chestnut pony a good distance away and stalked noiselessly through the timber. Now night was drawing close and still the white man had not moved. Littleman shrugged. Maybe it would be just as well to end it here. He knew why they had not. Thunderhawk would th
ink, and rightly so, that an outright attack would end it too quickly. In true Kiowa manner, he had chosen hit and run tactics. To hold the edge over the fat-taker would feed the fear in the white man’s stomach. He would always have to be on the alert against an attack, frightened to sleep in case he should wake with a scalping knife at his throat. Persistent harrying would show what kind of a warrior he was.
Littleman smiled. Apart from the death of the Buffalo Medicine Man they were having a good time so far. He was not as fearful of bad medicine as the other braves but he respected their feelings.
He fingered the butt of his Sharps rifle. That was his good medicine, a weapon that could be called upon to shoot straight and spear the hearts of his enemies. Thunderhawk had told him to kill one of the pack horses when the white man broke camp so they would be able to discover for certain what the sacks carried. Littleman himself hoped there was ammunition for his own supply was low. At first he had been reluctant to shoot one of the horses for they were fine animals, but Crowfoot said the loss would further dispirit the white man. He had to agree. Even a man with a herd of horses was sure to become angry, and anger would lower his guard.
A movement in the nest of rocks caused Littleman to ease the pine bough down a fraction to gain a clear view. The light was failing fast but his practised eye could follow the white man easily. He was transferring heavy sacks from one horse to another. The scout frowned. There were only four horses, the fifth missing. Was the light playing tricks? He wondered if a stray bullet had put one down and it was behind the rocks, out of sight. It seemed to be the only explanation, for the white man was mounting the unloaded packhorse.
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