by J. T. Edson
‘Yes!’ Geraldine said, hoping she sounded more confident than she was feeling. Then, recollecting what she had been told by Mort, she gestured with her Colt towards the fringed buckskin pouch which she had draped in plain sight across the seat of his low horn, double girthed Texas range saddle. ‘He left that with me!’
‘Real fancy sort of do-hickey,’ the man drawled. ‘Ain’t it?’
‘You know what it is, of course?’ the girl inquired, noticing with growing consternation that none of the Indians had done more than give the pouch a cursory glance and were showing a far greater interest in their surroundings, particularly the three horses.
‘Sure I know what it is,’ the man admitted, in what was clearly intended to be a disinterested fashion even though he was not entirely successful in producing it.
‘Mort told me I should show it to any of his mother’s people who came along,’ Geraldine explained, running her gaze from one to another of the newcomers and feeling increasingly alarmed. ‘Then they would know I’m a friend.’
‘And that fancy do-hickey’d be the son-of-a-bitch to do her, for sure,’ the man conceded with a mocking leer. ‘Trouble being, these bucks of mine are Wacos. They ain’t Kweharehnuh, nor bound to take notice of Antelope medicine.’
Having made the disturbing pronouncement, the speaker barked a few words in a language which Geraldine could not understand!
Clearly the Indians were able to do so!
Letting out a derisive guffaw, the brave equipped for archery dropped his bow and darted towards the girl. Moving somewhat slower, yet with an equally obvious suggestion of deadly purpose and evil intent, the others retained their respective main armament as they too started to converge upon her. However, the sallow faced white man came to a halt and started to direct glances at the bushes surrounding the clearing. Although he did not draw it, his right hand moved to close about the butt of his revolver.
Concluding the quartet meant mischief and probably much worse, Geraldine discarded the flat leather drawing case. Even as she was starting to rise, she became sickeningly aware that it was highly unlikely merely pointing her Colt would frighten her intended assailants. Nor, she realized—even if she could bring herself to shoot at another human being—would she be able to use the weapon quickly enough to deal with all of them.
~*~
‘It seems you’re were right to leave your medicine pouch with Gerrie,’ First Lieutenant James Thatcher remarked as through the bush, he saw the six men entering the clearing as he and Mort Lewis were making their way there after having dealt with the wounded bull buffalo. ‘She’s got callers!’
‘Sure,’ the guide agreed. ‘Only, even was they Kweharehnuh, which they’re not, I wouldn’t trust them with Waxie Corovan along!’
‘Waxie Coro—!’ the young officer commenced, knowing the man in question to be an unproven gun runner and whiskey peddler.
‘Hold hard!’ Mort hissed, reaching with his right hand to hold down the. Sharps New Model of 1866 rifle which his companion was starting to raise shoulderwards. ‘That won’t serve your sister but to get her killed!’
Having recognized the man wearing mostly white attire, the guide knew Geraldine was in grave danger. Like himself, Dennis ‘Waxie’ Corovan was part Comanche. There, however, all resemblance ended. Even the other bands of the Nemenuh did not hold the Wawai in high esteem and his mother had been a ‘Wormy’, as the name could be translated into English. What was more, the company he was keeping ruled out any chance of his presence in the clearing having harmless intent.
Despite being further away, Mort was more successful than Geraldine Thatcher in identifying the tribe to which the Indians belonged. Or rather, he knew they were not Kweharehnuh nor even Wawai Comanche. Therefore, taking into account that all were young and wearing badly applied war paint, he guessed they had quit some reservation to search for loot and coups in the manner of their ancestors. He also realized that, particularly with the chance of acquiring three good quality saddle horses and the bonus of molesting a white woman, they would not respect the medicine pouch he had left to indicate her association with him if any of his mother’s people should happen upon her in his absence.
There was, the guide concluded from his scrutiny of the Indians, one consolation. Neither they nor Corovan were carrying anything to indicate they had found the chuck wagon and had killed the two men with it.
‘God damn it!’ Thatcher hissed, retaining sufficient presence of mind to hold his voice to the low level he had been using, but halting the movement of the rifle. ‘We can’t just stand here—!’
‘We’re not going to,’ Mort answered. ‘Put that ole Sharps down and get out your belt gun, you’ll be able to use it better.’
Being vastly more experienced than his companion, who had yet to go into action, the guide had instantly seen the danger of opening fire from their present position. The situation called for caution and not impetuosity. Even if the party fled as soon as a shot came their way, they would be unlikely to leave without killing Geraldine. What was more, in addition to suffering from the disadvantage of needing to be reloaded by hand for each shot, the Sharps would be more of a liability than an asset to its owner with his right shoulder so badly bruised. Fortunately, as he had proved on targets, he had acquired sufficient competence in using the Army Colt with his left hand provided he was shooting at a much closer range.
‘I see you’re not leaving your Spencer,’ the lieutenant remarked, as he turned from leaning his rifle against a bush.
‘Could be we’ll need a mite more range than the Colts give afore we get there,’ Mort replied. ‘Let’s go—and move quieter than you’ve ever done it afore.’
Regardless of his comment, the guide was aware that his Spencer was only marginally better than the Sharps in the prevailing circumstances. Although the trigger guard-loading lever ejected the spent cartridge case and replenished the chamber from the seven-capacity magazine tube in the butt, the need to cock the hammer manually between shots severely restricted the speed at which it could be fired. For all that, he considered its greater range discounted this factor.
After Thatcher had drawn the revolver with his left hand, the two young men started to advance once more. Given the appropriate order by its master, the big dog followed just behind him in a manner more suited to a wild creature than a domesticated animal.
Moving through the bushes side by side as swiftly as possible while also keeping concealed and avoiding any noise which might betray them, Mort was pleased his companion had attained the requisite skill at stalking to make this possible. However, he was also aware of another factor which was helping to keep them undetected. As he drew closer, he was able to see which tribe the Indians belonged to. Due to the Wacos having been compelled to take up life on a reservation long before such a fate befell the Comanche, the young men had not acquired the skills of more seasoned warriors. For all that, he had no intention of allowing himself to become complacent. To do so could bring about the very thing he was wanting to avert. Even with things going favorably, he knew saving the girl was still far from a sinecure.
‘Only a few more feet!’ the guide breathed, in answer to a glance directed his way by the lieutenant.
Even as Mort uttered the instruction, the matter was taken from his hands!
Having listened to the conversation between Geraldine and Coro van, the guide had been grateful for the distraction it was offering. It had prevented the vastly more competent lanky man from exercising all his skill and detecting the danger which was approaching. However, hearing and understanding what was said to the Indians, Mort realized he dare not wait to get nearer before taking action.
‘Pete!’ the guide hissed, starting to bring the Spencer upwards. ‘Attack!’
Even as the girl was arriving at her far from palatable assumptions and beginning to raise the revolver with the intention of selling her life as dearly as possible, she heard a snarling bark close to a roar from her rear!
&nbs
p; Before Geraldine or any of the men in the clearing could fully comprehend what was happening, something big and grayish dashed by her to hurtle upwards!
An instant later, the leading brave was thrown sprawling on to his back with the powerful jaws of Mort’s dog sinking teeth into his throat!
Confident that Pete would know which of the braves to tackle, the guide made his own decision. Much as he would have liked, he did not attempt to fire at Corovan. For one thing, the lanky man was partially concealed behind the braves. Therefore, at that moment, he was posing the least threat to the well-being of the girl.
Cradling the butt of the Spencer at his right shoulder, having cocked its hammer while speaking with Thatcher, Mort sighted and fired. Struck in the center of the chest, having been selected for the way in which he was armed, the warrior with the war lance spun around and the lance flew from his grasp. As was the case with the Comanche, such a weapon was only carried by a Waco brave determined to prove himself more courageous than his companions. Therefore, of all the party, he was the most likely to press home his attack regardless of what was being done by his companions. Having used it so effectively, the scout did not take the time required to prepare the carbine for firing again.
Tossing it aside, he snatched the Army Colt from the holster on his belt.
‘At ’em, Jimmie!’ Mort yelled, thumb cocking the revolver and bounding forward.
Needing no urging, Thatcher raced towards the clearing by the side of his companion. He saw the remaining Indians were registering consternation at the intervention, but they showed no sign of taking flight. Instead, they began to raise their muzzle loading carbines. Antiquated and firing only a single shot although these undoubtedly were, they would prove deadly at close quarters. Therefore, his sister was still far from out of danger.
Regardless of what his companions meant to do, although one was the favorite son of a senior Waco war chief, Coro van had no intention of helping them. He was too aware of how competently Mort Lewis could fight and equally cognizant of the fact that the young men he had persuaded to leave the reservation on a raiding mission were inexperienced as warriors. With that in mind, feeling sure he of all of them could expect no mercy at the hands of the guide, he had no desire to remain and face the consequences. For a moment, being a sufficiently expert rider to require neither saddle nor bridle, he thought of speeding his departure by using one of the horses in the clearing. Then he remembered they were hobbled and incapable of hurried movement. What was more, from the position he was now standing in, he could see each had the letters, VL, burned into its rump. The brand meant they belonged to Mort Lewis and, as demanded by his Comanche upbringing, he would remorselessly hunt down anybody who stole even one of them.
Spinning upon his heel, paying not the slightest attention to the brave struggling to escape from the jaws of the big dog, Corovan saw from the corner of his eye the lance carrier being shot. Realizing the father of the would be warrior was going to be furious on learning what had happened, he knew the only way in which he could return to the lucrative Waco reservation was to be able to announce he had taken revenge upon the killer. Despite this appreciation of the situation, he had no intention of trying to take vengeance immediately.
Running the kind of risks involved by such an undertaking had never been his way.
Thinking only of saving his own skin, shelving the matter of revenge until this could be attained without danger to himself, Corovan sprinted in the direction from which he had come as fast as his legs could carry him. Nor, despite hearing shots from various firearms to his rear, did he look back. Instead, he returned through the bushes to where he and his companions had left their mounts when moving in to learn whose tracks they had been following.
Alarmed by what was happening, Geraldine could not prevent herself from taking an involuntary pace to the rear. However, doing so saved her life. Catching her heel against the saddle upon which she had sat while drawing, she toppled backwards. The providential accident was only just in time.
Of the three young braves armed with the carbines, only one had already cocked the action. Being aware that they were far from proficient in using the weapons and wanting to reduce the chance of a premature discharge, Corovan had ordered them not to cock the action before commencing the stalking on foot. However, while his companions had been too absorbed in studying the girl and horses to think of it, the exception had drawn back the hammer before entering the clearing.
Showing himself more skilful in other aspects too, the brave had his carbine in the firing position while his companions were still cocking their pieces. As he could not see the men amongst the bushes, he sighted at the girl. Just as he had squeezed the trigger to the point where the sear released the hammer, he saw his intended victim starting to disappear from view. This would not have had any effect if he was using a modem, metal cartridge firearm. The action of the old, percussion fired, ‘trade gun’ was slower. By the time the hammer swung forward to strike the copper cap, sending a spurt of flame to ignite the powder charge in the chamber, she had fallen just far enough for the discharged bullet to pass close above her.
Seeing what was happening as they burst into the clearing, Mort and Thatcher were only moderately relieved!
While Geraldine had avoided being shot by the brave, her perils were still far from at an end!
Having made their carbines ready for use, the other two Indians were starting to take aim at the girl. Ignoring what they were doing in his eagerness to count coup on her, the third did not offer to reload. Instead, swinging up the weapon with the intention of using its butt as an extemporized club, he bounded towards where she had fallen.
Six
One You Call Friend Is Enemy
Guided by habits acquired through having ridden horses for most of her life and taken her fair share of falls, Geraldine Thatcher sought instinctively to reduce the impact from the unexpected tumble. Aided by the springy turf upon which she arrived, she contrived to land without more than receiving a jolt. Apart from being slightly winded, she was otherwise in possession of all her faculties and retained her hold on the Colt Navy Model of 1853 revolver. Looking up, despite realizing her brother and Morton Lewis must be close by, she discovered that she might still have need of the weapon to protect herself. Already the Indian who had tried to shoot her was approaching to continue the assault.
Sprawled supine, the girl reacted to the threat. Thrusting the revolver upwards, an instinct for self preservation directing her thumb to cock the hammer, she pointed and fired it. However, although she hit her intended assailant in the right side, the light powder charge and comparatively small size of the .36 caliber conical bullet lacked sufficient ‘stopping’ power to halt, or even turn him aside. Instead, he began to bound over the saddle upon which she had tripped and it seemed certain that he would either alight upon her, or would be close enough to smash home the butt of his carbine.
Skidding to a halt a few feet from the fringe of the bushes, although First Lieutenant James Thatcher ran onwards, Mort Lewis took in the situation and drew his conclusions with great rapidity. The two young Waco braves who had not yet fired their carbines were preparing to do so. If he and his companion devoted attention to them, the third was at liberty to complete his attack upon the girl. Yet, to shoot this buck and rely upon the officer to deal with another would still leave the third to take her life.
‘Pete!’ the guide bellowed, selecting what he considered to be the only course for his party. ‘Drop it!’
Even as it heard its master’s voice, the big dog had grown aware that the man it attacked had ceased to struggle. Therefore, it was able to obey the command immediately. Opening its jaws to free the throat, from which blood spurted out of gashes ripped as far as the windpipe by its teeth, it looked around. At the sight of the brave who had fired rushing by, it swung from its victim and darted in his direction.
Once again, Pete arrived in time to prevent Geraldine from being attacked!
&nb
sp; Having gained momentum, the dog rose into the air upon converging course with the brave. He was at the apex of his bound over the saddle when the ninety pounds of hard muscled animal reached and struck him. Closing with a crushing pressure, yet only a slight burning sensation as the teeth sank through the sleeve of his jacket and into his flesh, 17 the jaws grasped his raised right forearm. The shock of the unexpected attack, combined with the weight of the dog, knocked him sideways and they went down together well clear of the girl.
Relieved by Pete of the most pressing threat to Geraldine’s well-being, Mort was able to give thought to dealing with the others. In one respect, his shout to the dog was already playing its part in doing so. Hearing him, the surviving pair of braves had become aware of the hazard posed by the arrival of Thatcher and himself in the clearing. Realizing they posed a far graver danger than either the girl or the dog, the bucks began to turn the barrels of the carbines in their direction. Nor, despite the comparative inexperience in handling of the users, was Mort and Thatcher’s position any more of a sinecure than rescuing the girl had been. At the distance separating them, the ‘trade guns’ of the Indians had an advantage in range over their Colt 1860 Army revolvers which might prove the decisive factor.
Bringing up the Colt, his left hand going to join and help the right hold it more steadily, the guide aimed via the notch at the tip of the hammer which served as a backsight when fully cocked. Covering the brave who was swinging the carbine towards him, he squeezed the trigger. Rudimentary though the sighting arrangements of the revolver undoubtedly were, they proved adequate for his purpose. Flying as he had intended’ the .44 caliber soft lead ball caught the brave in the center of the forehead. Although killed instantly, a spasmodic jerk of the right forefinger discharged the weapon. However, its barrel had been tilted out of alignment and the bullet flew harmlessly into the air.
Filled with fear for the life of his sister though Thatcher might be, he nevertheless contrived to keep sufficient control over his emotions to behave in a sensible fashion. Although he fired twice on the run, being just as aware as the guide of his revolver’s limitations, he was not acting on blind impulse. Instead, he was seeking to divert the attention of the braves from Geraldine to himself. He was partially successful in this. Hearing the crack of the Army Colt, the taller of the survivors looked towards him and began to direct the carbine his way.