Ralph Compton Doomsday Rider

by Ralph Compton

  “Keep your eyes skinned, Charlie,” Fletcher said. “I reckon I got my own itch, and it’s telling me we could soon be in a world of trouble.”

  By full dark, the Chosen One’s disciples sought their mats in the pueblo as though they did not have a care in the world.

  Fletcher and Charlie decided to stand watch in turns, and he let the older man sleep first, since his hangover took top priority.

  A gentle snow was falling as Fletcher stepped out of the room assigned to him and Charlie in the pueblo, his Winchester cradled in his arm.

  He walked toward the slope, his eyes scanning the rise of the hill ahead of him. The breeze had dropped and the broad snowflakes fluttered slowly to earth, coating the branches of the pines with white. An owl glided past him on silent wings, a ghostly gray phantom that quickly faded from sight to become one with the darkness.

  If the Apaches came this could be one avenue of attack, unless they skirted the hill and approached the pueblos from the narrow valley beyond.

  The night had turned cold and frost hung in the air, and Fletcher’s breath smoked as he walked along the base of the hill toward the valley.

  On the western slope grew scattered spruce and cedar, and at its base rose an upthrust pinnacle of red, flat-topped rock about twice the height of a man, smaller boulders of the same color surrounding it on all sides.

  Fletcher walked to the rock, stood in its meager shelter, and built a smoke. He thumbed a match into flame, trusting to the rock to shield him from the view of any sleepless Apaches who might be wandering around in the night.

  In this, Fletcher’s trust was badly misplaced.

  Using cupped hands he raised the light to his cigarette—and the sky fell on him.

  Twelve

  The Apache jumped from the top of the rock and his moccasined feet slammed into Fletcher’s shoulders.

  Fletcher crumpled under the warrior’s weight and went to his knees. He saw a sudden gleam of steel and parried with his left arm. Too late. The knife raked across his ribs and Fletcher felt his side burn like fire.

  The Apache closed on him quickly, holding his knife blade up for a fast, gutting slash. Still stunned by his fall, Fletcher grabbed the warrior’s wrist and held on, twisting the Apache’s arm hard to his left. The man yelped in pain, broke free, and sprang back, teeth bared, circling Fletcher warily.

  Fletcher knew, isolated out here as he was, that he could not use his guns. A shot might bring a dozen warriors in this direction, and there would be no help from the pueblo except Charlie, and by the time he got here it would be too late. Like most men who lived by the gun, Fletcher carried no blade except for a sharp pocket folder, and that was little use against the Apache’s broad-bladed fighting knife.

  The warrior dived at Fletcher again, his muscular, wiry body taut as he sought to drive the knife home into Fletcher’s belly. Fletcher turned at the last moment, drew his long-barreled Colt, and aimed a blow at the Apache’s head. But the warrior was fast and saw the gun coming. He jerked his head away at the last moment and the barrel lost power as it slammed into the side of the Apache’s cheek, staggering him but not knocking him down.

  Fletcher stepped forward and the Indian jumped at him, his knife held high over his head. Fletcher let him come, then rolled onto his back, his booted feet coming up, catching the Apache in the belly. Fletcher’s legs straightened, throwing the warrior up and over him, and the man somersaulted through the air.

  The Apache let out a sudden, quick gasp of pain as his back crashed against the rock.

  Fletcher scrambled quickly to his feet. The Apache, stunned, took a split second longer. He was on all fours beside the rock, and as he rose to his feet Fletcher kicked him hard in the face with the toe of his right boot. The warrior’s nose was smashed by the impact and blood fountained around his head. But the man hardly slowed.

  He sprang at Fletcher, a low growl escaping his throat. The Apache feinted to his left; then the bright steel blurred as he swung the blade blindingly fast to the right, leading with the razor-sharp edge, a cut designed to disembowel.

  Fletcher was unable to block the blow, but he stepped back and knocked the Indian’s arm down, and the knife flashed past his belly, opening up a six-inch slash in the thick sheepskin of Fletcher’s mackinaw but failing to reach the skin.

  The two men circled each other warily, Fletcher holding his Colt up and ready. With the forearm of his knife hand, the Apache wiped away from his mouth blood that ran in a scarlet stream from his smashed nose. But his black eyes glittered with hate and he showed no fear of the gun. Fletcher realized the warrior understood that he dare not shoot, so he was right in assuming there were others close by.

  Around the men the land lay silent and snow drifted softly between them from the black canopy of the sky. The rock towered above their heads, a stony, unfeeling witness to a desperate fight that must soon end in death for one man and perhaps two.

  Fletcher’s mouth was dry and he watched the Apache’s every move. He was not skilled at knife fighting like this warrior undoubtedly was, and he decided that if put to it, he’d use the Colt and to hell with the consequences.

  But then he must turn the gun on himself. And quickly. Such a death would be quick and infinitely preferable to the one the Apaches would visit on him, full of pain and long drawn out. That was the Apache way, and there would be no mercy and no escaping it.

  The warrior lunged again, a straight thrust to the belly. Fletcher danced aside, willing to take the cut that burned across his left hip just under his gun belt. He felt a hot gush of blood over his thigh as he hooked a vicious, short left to the Apache’s chin. As the warrior’s head snapped around under the impact of the blow, Fletcher slammed the barrel of his gun hard across the shattered bridge of the man’s nose.

  A shriek, quickly stifled, rose in the Apache’s throat as he fell back against the side of the rock. But only for an instant. The warrior bounced off the rock and came at him again, his lips drawn back in a silent snarl.

  Fletcher shook his head, not believing what he was seeing. God, this man was strong! And he was enduring, like all Apaches born to this harsh and relentlessly unforgiving land.

  The warrior stood, watching Fletcher, eyes glittering and unblinking like those of a stalking cougar. He was taller than most Apaches, young, and thick with muscle in the chest and shoulders where it mattered. His shirt, woven by his womenfolk, and his buckskin breeches had been faded by many suns to the shade of dust, his only color the red band around his head and the gleam of copper cartridges in the belt across his chest.

  Blood from his shattered nose stained the Apache’s broad, flat face. But, trained from boyhood in the hard school of desert and mountains, where death beckoned daily and only the quick and the strong survived, this he ignored.

  Fletcher knew with a growing certainty that there was no give in this man and there would be no surrender. He had to kill him and he had to do it soon.

  He was losing blood from two knife wounds, both of them shallow to be sure, but nonetheless draining him. His breath came in short, hard gasps, and there was a dull fire in his chest.

  But, despite all this, Buck Fletcher himself was no bargain.

  Lean and big-boned, he bore on his body a dozen scars from bullet and saber wounds, and he was equally as strong and enduring as the Apache who faced him. He was stubborn in a fight, fearless, confident, and hard to kill. And he proved it now.

  Fletcher did not wait for the Apache to attack again. He holstered his Colt and sprang at the man, his clawed right hand seeking the warrior’s throat.

  The Apache feinted with the knife, looking for an opening. But Fletcher grabbed the man’s wrist and wrenched it upward, so that the warrior had to cut down with the blade, most of the power coming from his weaker triceps muscles.

  Fletcher moved in closer and his fingers closed around the warrior’s throat. His thumb sought the protruding Adam’s apple and he ground hard, digging in deep with his wide, hard nail.
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  The warrior tried to twist away, but Fletcher’s thumb dug deeper. The two men struggled close as entwined lovers amid the gently falling snow, muscles straining, each refusing to give up an inch of ground.

  Fletcher looked into the Apache’s eyes and saw only hate and defiance and the desire to kill. The warrior tried to hack downward with the knife, but Fletcher’s grip on his wrist was like an iron vise, and though the man’s arm trembled with the effort, the blade did not move.

  His thumb dug deeper as Fletcher’s fingers closed tighter around the Apache’s throat, squeezing hard. He felt the man’s right arm weaken as the warrior’s breath was cut off, and Fletcher moved in even closer, his face only inches from that of the Apache as his fingers tightened like bands of steel around the man’s throat and tightened more.

  A low moan came from somewhere deep inside the Apache and the light left his eyes, no longer burning in the darkness like those of a wounded tiger. Fletcher felt the man go limp and he stepped away and let him drop to the ground.

  The Apache lay unmoving, as dead as he was ever going to be, his face upturned to the sky and the falling snow.

  Breathing hard, Fletcher looked down at the dead man for a few moments; then, his eyes wild and staring from the stress of combat and the nearness of death, he picked up his Winchester and began to walk back to the pueblo.

  The flat, angry report of a rifle shot echoed through the still canyon of the night, and behind him Fletcher heard a muffled scream.

  He spun around fast, cranking his Winchester, in time to see an Apache fall, the entire top of his skull blown apart.

  Fletcher ran for the pueblo as a bullet, then another, split the air above his head. He stopped, turned on his heel, and saw a dozen Apaches swarming after him, a series of running, flickering shapes in the darkness.

  Fletcher fired, cranked his rifle, and fired again. A bullet kicked up a fountain of snow at his left foot, and he turned and ran on.

  Charlie’s rifle spat orange flame from the pueblo, and Fletcher heard the old mountain man yell, “Run, boy!”

  A bullet burned across Fletcher’s shoulder and he stumbled and fell headlong into the snow. He looked up and saw Charlie step outside the pueblo, his rifle hammering, bright stars of flame from the muzzle flaring in the darkness.

  Fletcher picked himself up and ran. He reached Charlie, turned, and threw his Winchester to his shoulder, seeking a target.

  The Apaches were gone.

  Charlie slapped Fletcher on the back. “Damn it all, boy, that was close. For a spell there I figured fer sure you was a goner.”

  Fletcher smiled. “That makes two of us.” He shifted his rifle to his left hand and extended his right to the old man.

  Charlie looked down at Fletcher’s hand suspiciously. “What’s that fer?”

  Fletcher laughed. “Why, you old grizzly, for saving my life back there. That was one hell of a shot you made in the dark.”

  The old man’s face was puzzled. “You can drop your hand, Buck, less’n you just want to shake for the sake of it. I didn’t make that shot. Hell, boy, I’m good, but I’m not that good.”

  “Then who did?” Fletcher asked, now as perplexed as Charlie.

  “Beats me, boy. But I’ll tell you who it wasn’t—it wasn’t one of these here pilgrims, since they don’t hold with guns an’ shooting folks an’ sich.”

  But someone had shot that Apache back at the slope, someone with considerable marksmanship skills who killed at a distance, and Fletcher, knowing in such matters, recognized him for what he was: a professional.

  “Seems to me, Buck, you got a guardian angel looking out for you,” Charlie said. “Maybe he accounts for the itch at the back of my neck.”

  Fletcher nodded. “Maybe he’s an angel, Charlie. But could be he’s something else entirely.”

  All the clustered rooms in the lowest level of the three pueblos were occupied, and now people were pouring out of them, looking first to Fletcher and then to Charlie.

  “What happened here?” asked a tall, skinny man, his receding chin and the wattles under his neck giving him the look of an outraged turkey. “What was all the shooting about?”

  “Apaches,” Fletcher replied. He pointed with his rifle into the darkness. “Out there.”

  “You didn’t hurt our friends, did you?” the man asked.

  Fletcher felt anger flare in him. “Mister, your friends were doing their level best to hurt me. I got two knife wounds and a bullet burn across my shoulder. I wouldn’t say that was right neighborly.”

  The Chosen One, Estelle behind him, appeared from the farthest door of the pueblo and walked rapidly to Fletcher, the huge cross on his breast swaying with each step.

  “Apaches,” Fletcher said again before the man could speak. “One attacked me over there by those standing rocks, and there’s another dead one on the slope. That one wasn’t killed by me, and I don’t know who did it.”

  “Two?” The Chosen One gasped, his face shocked and unbelieving. “Two of our children dead?”

  “There will be more,” Fletcher said, his voice harsh and uncompromising. “I think the Apaches will attack this pueblo come first light. You’d best get ready.”

  “If that happens I will speak to them,” the Chosen One said. “The power of the Lord is in me, and by his grace I will make the Apache see the light. They will forsake the rifle and the bow and take up the hoe and the plow.”

  “Mr. Chosen,” Charlie said, “you’ll be whistling at the wind. Those are wild young Apache bucks out there and they ain’t about to listen to reason.”

  “They will, Mr. Moore; they will listen to me because the mighty voice of the Lord is in me and I speak with his tongue.”

  There was a scattered chorus of “Praise the Lord” from the disciples; then the turkey man stepped belligerently toward the Chosen One.

  “We must send these men away,” he said, waving a thick-veined hand toward Fletcher and Charlie. “They bring us only violence and death.”

  “Emmanuel is right, Chosen One,” another man said. “They are killing our children and even now are planning to kill more.”

  An angry chorus of approval went up from the crowd, and the Chosen One bowed his head, his lips moving in silent prayer. After a few moments he looked up, his eyes shining, and said, “I have prayed for guidance and it has been given unto me. If our children come tomorrow as these men say they will, I will preach to the Apache of Christ crucified and prepare them for the day of doomsday and the terrible judgment to come. The Lord, in his infinite wisdom, has made the Apache his chosen people and I am but his instrument.”

  The Chosen One turned to the crowd behind him. “Bring these men their horses. They must depart from us now before the sun rises.”

  Desperately Fletcher made a last attempt to convince Estelle to leave with him.

  “Come daybreak there will be few of these people left alive, and those who are will be cursing God for allowing them to live,” he said. “Come with me now, Estelle. We can ride out of here together and I’ll have General Crook protect you.”

  The girl smiled. “Oh, don’t be a silly Billy. My place is with my husband.”

  Fletcher shook his head. “Then you will die here.”

  “That’s silly,” Estelle said, and, looking at her, a despairing Fletcher could see no depth of intelligence in her eyes.

  “Your horses,” the Chosen One said.

  A man handed Fletcher the reins of his stud and he swung into the saddle, and alongside him, Charlie did the same.

  The Chosen One stepped closer to Fletcher. “Go with the Lord, my friends.”

  Fletcher looked down at the man, the single-minded madness in the Chosen One’s face a strange, unholy light.

  “God help you,” Fletcher said.

  Thirteen

  Fletcher and Charlie rode east, away from the Apaches and in the direction of the high Natanes Plateau country, then swung due north and splashed across a narrow tributary running off of Ca
nyon Creek.

  There was no wind to drive the snow, and it floated slowly to earth around them, settling thick on their hats and shoulders.

  An hour passed and there was silence between the two men; then Fletcher reined up and pointed to a thick stand of juniper at the base of a hill.

  “Charlie, let’s hole up in there until daybreak.”

  Without waiting for the older man to reply, Fletcher swung his horse toward the juniper. When he reached the tree line he dismounted and led his horse among the checkered trunks of the pines. He tied the reins to a low-hanging branch and found a place clear of brush where he sat, his hat low over his eyes.

  Charlie tied up his mustang, then dropped stiffly to the ground beside Fletcher.

  “You hurt bad, Buck?” he asked. “You got blood all over your pants.”

  “I’m cut up some,” Fletcher replied, “but none of it is real bad.”

  He opened his mackinaw, revealing a red stain on his shirt where the Apache’s knife had raked across his ribs. “This one is the worst, maybe.”

  “Let me see that,” Charlie said. The old man studied the wound for a few moments, then said, “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  When Charlie returned he was chewing something, his bearded cheeks bulging. He squatted beside Fletcher and spat out green pulp, then took a syrupy white wad from his mouth and said, “Pull up your shirt and let me take a look at that there cut.”

  Fletcher did as he was told, and Charlie quickly spread the chewed ooze over the wound before the younger man could object.

  “What the hell is that?” Fletcher asked, looking down at the thick paste in considerable disgust.

  “Maguey, mescal, century plant, whatever you want to call it.” The old man grinned. “The pulp from the leaves will stop the bleeding and help you heal.”

  “Thanks,” Fletcher said. He pulled down his shirt. “I think.”

  Fletcher rolled a smoke and lit the cigarette, aware that Charlie was watching him closely. “Say what’s on your mind, Charlie,” he said, his eyes shaded by his hat brim.