by Cotton Smith
Dust was high from the war party’s charge. The Comanche were advancing confidently, their ponies strutting with feathers floating from their manes and tails. Strips of hair and flesh were tied to their horses’ manes. New scalps. A fierce-looking band, most were painted for war. Achak was at the front with ribbons streaming down his bare back from his wolf’s headdress. In his right hand was a Henry rifle, one of their few guns. Beside him rode a large warrior with vertical stripes of white down his face, wearing a military cavalry tunic with the sleeves removed. In his hand was an old Colt revolver. However, most were armed with lances, bows, and arrows.
Deed forced himself to watch the tall grass in front of him, instead of the Comanche riders, still a long way away. If Silka was right, warriors would be slipping through this cover to get close. His eyes caught movement. Nothing distinctive, more the sense of movement. He cocked the big gun, pointed it in that direction, and waited. And waited.
A brown body slithered through the tall grass. Slowly. Ever closer. It reminded Deed of a crouching panther stalking an antelope. The warrior was naked except for a breechcloth, moccasins, and a scalping knife. An eagle feather fluttered in his long black hair, brushing against the grass.
Deed made a mental note of the warrior’s progress and moved his rifle to where he was likely to head. The young gunfighter began to tighten his finger against the trigger and sighted along the carbine barrel. He sensed the movement again before he actually saw it. The Spencer roared and the warrior actually stood, then collapsed with Deed’s second shot.
Re-cocking the seven-shot Spencer, he studied the grass for other movement, glad there was no wind. Holt and Rose were firing their Winchesters at the band of Comanche dragging blankets behind their ponies to generate greater dust. Rose emptied his gun without hitting anything or anyone.
Achak raised his fist and yelled a command. Yelping, his men turned around and rode away. Two lay against their horses’ necks.
At the far end of the camp, at almost the same moment, Silka greeted an advancing Comanche with the swing of his heavy sword and the warrior crumpled in the thick brush, spreading bright crimson streaks.
Tag sprang from Holt’s side, growling and headed for the tall grass to Deed’s right.
“Shhh, Tag. Stay here,” Deed said.
A face-painted warrior lunged forward with a tomahawk in one hand and a knife in the other. Deed jumped sideways, cocked his right leg, and drove his boot into the warrior’s face. A swift follow-through with his opened hand slammed into the Comanche’s Adam’s apple like an axe blade. Tag stepped from Deed’s side to sniff the dead Indian. Satisfied, he trotted back to Holt.
As Rose turned to get additional bullets, a black-streaked warrior sprang from a shadow and drove his knife into the townsman’s shoulder. He screamed. Deed and Holt turned toward his yell and both fired at the Comanche, driving him backward. Rose fell to his knees, holding his bleeding shoulder.
“T-they got me! T-they got me!” he choked as a crimson circle widened on his dirty shirt.
Holt told him to lie down so they could treat the wound.
“I’ll get the hot water,” Deed said and went to the fire.
As he hurried toward the hot water pot, Silka appeared from the far east side. A smear of blood decorated his right cheek.
“Malcolm’s hurt. We’re going to need your help.”
Unspoken was the thought the Comanche had fled, not used to such high casualties.
“Yes, I do.” The Oriental turned in mid-step to head for his horse and his saddlebags.
An hour later, Rose was sleeping and Deed was preparing a meal for them. With his field glasses, Holt kept a steady lookout to make certain the Indians were not returning. Silka walked the rim of their camp, checking the downed Indians and making certain they were dead.
Smells of frying bacon and cut-up potatoes filled the temporary stockade. Deed had opened two cans of beans and they were cooking at the edge of the fire. A fresh pot of coffee was boiling. From their supplies, he had taken a loaf of bread and laid it open against a log near where he cooked.
“Might as well eat all that bread,” he declared. “It’s not going to keep. We’re got powder for making biscuits in the pack. For later on.”
“Sounds good to me,” Holt said. “I’m hungry as a bear.”
A mile away, in a narrow valley, the Comanche made a hasty camp. Achak was frustrated and worried. He had promised easy rewards to his band of mostly young warriors. Guns. Horses. White scalps. White women. War honors when they returned. The trills of impressed Comanche women. The appreciative stares of older men and younger boys. But so far, the three farms they had raided had produced only scalps and the women the men had enjoyed; one was still with them, little more than a whimper left in her body. But little else had been achieved. A gun they didn’t know how to shoot, a shotgun without shells, and three old horses.
When he saw the tracks of the Corrigan party, he had been elated. Horses. Good horses. And, most likely, guns. He figured it was a white hunting party. But this small group had punished his men and had not been fooled by their blanket trick. He now figured that one of them had to be the white warrior who walked with a dog. Achak had been impressed with the way he fought.
Achak sat alone and smiled. His war medicine would be seen as invincible if he brought down these men. The white walker’s tongue belonged on his necklace. His warriors had told him of a yellow man who killed with a long sword and another white man who fought with his feet. What kind of men were these? Their own war medicine was definitely strong. And different than any he had seen before.
Yet his men had counted nine good horses and more guns than his men had. They were excited about this challenge. Each man wanted the honor of killing the white walker or watching him die slowly from their torture.
This morning, before the battle, his brother, the wolf, had told him that his cunning was necessary to overcome this great enemy. To that end, he would send select warriors to steal the white men’s horses and kill any of the white men they could. Even if they could only get the horses, the white men would be doomed. Even the white walker couldn’t make it that far.
He chuckled and several of his men turned to see why their leader was pleased.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Late afternoon was closing in on the four men with no sign of the Comanche returning. They took turns sleeping while one stood guard.
Silka and Deed had dragged the Indian bodies away from their encampment, partly to remove the smell that would come soon enough and partly to let the warriors return for their dead as they usually did. Rose was sleeping, but it was a fitful rest with frantic words bursting from him occasionally.
Holt repacked the packhorse and refilled their canteens and the water bag. Nothing had been said, but he was planning on moving again when it was dark. They could make for the hills before daybreak. It wasn’t as strong a position as where they were now, but it was closer to home. Of course, Achak would know where they were headed, but that couldn’t be helped.
The immediate worry was Malcolm Rose. Would he be able to ride? If not, they would have to rig some kind of travois and the pounding would be hard on him.
The oldest Corrigan brother walked over to the dying fire and lit a new cigar from one of its burning sticks. His leg wound had mostly healed, bothering only when he was very tired, as he was now. All of them were weary from the previous night’s ride and the tension of the Indian fight.
But he didn’t like staying in place where the war party knew where they were, and how many they were. They had been lucky. So far. Being tired was better than being dead.
Withdrawing his bag of tobacco, he spread a small handful of shreds in all directions and thanked the spirits for helping them. He looked around at the abandoned ranch and wondered what had happened to the people who built it, then wondered why they had done so there in the first place. The land was fit for coyotes, rattlesnakes, and Comanche, not cattle or crops. He was tur
ning as Deed and Silka approached.
“Do you think Malcolm can ride?” Deed asked. The question held a built-in assumption that they would leave.
“Guess we’d better wake him up and see.” Holt headed toward the sleeping man. Tag brushed against his leg for attention and got a quick pat on the head.
Leaning over Rose, Holt put his hand on the man’s stomach. “Malcolm, we’re going to have to leave here. Now. Can you ride? Or do you want us to rig up something you can lie on?”
Rose blinked his eyes and stared wide-eyed without moving. “I-I can ride.” He started to get up and lost his balance.
“Easy now. Let me help you.” Holt took hold of Rose under his shoulder and Deed came forward to take the other side, the wounded side.
Rose stood, shakily, with both Corrigans continuing to hold him in place. He took a step, tried to smile, but the pain was too intense. Holt held a canteen to Rose’s mouth so that the wounded man could drink.
“You lost a lot of blood, man,” Holt said. “Maybe we’d fix up something for you. Here, drink some more.”
“N-no. Help me on my horse . . . I’ll be all right.” Rose pushed away the canteen.
Deed turned toward Silka and motioned for him to bring up Ross’s piebald. Holt kept his gaze on the wounded man as they pushed him into the saddle. The first attempt ended in a groan from the wounded man. He was almost dead weight. He grunted and, finally, made it. He was pale and his shoulder was bleeding again.
“M-maybe you’d better tie me in place,” Rose stammered. “I-I’m kinda dizzy.”
“Makes good sense,” Holt said and went for a rope.
They lashed his legs around the stirrup flaps and his wrists to the saddle horn.
“You look real hog-tied,” Deed said, “but I’ll keep you in the saddle. I’ll take your reins so you don’t have to worry.”
“T-thanks, Deed. I’m sorry.”
“We’re the ones who are sorry,” Deed responded, swinging onto his horse, “but we need to get out of here.”
“I-I know. Y-you think they’ll come back?”
“Hard to say.” Holt mounted and took his rifle from its boot. “But we don’t like the idea of them doing that. We’ll be in the hills before dawn. Water’s there. It’s a safe place.”
Gritting his teeth to hold back the pain, Rose looked at him. “What if my nose itches?” His smile was thin, but definite.
Holt chuckled. “Guess we’ll have to take turns rubbing it.”
At their fire, Silka placed the largest logs he could find to keep it burning all night. Satisfied, he took the lead ropes of his backup horse, Rose’s backup horse, and the packhorse. He tied the ropes of the backup animals to that of the pack animal so he wouldn’t have to handle three separate lines. The former samurai whistled for Tag. The dog came, knowing Deed and Silka were important to Holt, so he would respond to them as well. But Holt was still his first priority. Silka placed the dog on the top of the pack. Then, mounting himself, he declared he was ready.
They rode silently away with only the click of a hoof against rock to indicate their passing. The moon was barely a sliver of gold with a few aggressive stars rushing into the surrounding darkness. The trail was familiar to Holt, yet it wasn’t. Going back never looked the same and he had been under severe stress, carrying Tag, his canteens, saddlebags, and rifle. But he kept focused on the North Star and slipped his hand into his pocket and felt the medicine stone there. It was oddly reassuring.
Deed rode beside Rose, holding both reins and making certain the townsman didn’t start to slide off his mount. In spite of the situation, Deed’s mind raced to find Atlee and kiss her. Did she miss him? Would she marry him? The Bar 3 ranch would take a lot of work and attention. But it would be oh so lonely if she weren’t with him. He shook his head to clear away the images and glanced at Holt.
His brother was reading the area for landmarks. Deed was proud of him; Holt had stepped into the responsibility of being the county sheriff as if he were born to it. Deed couldn’t think of anyone who could do the job better. When this mess was over, Holt planned to spend part of his time at their ranch, helping Blue. Being county sheriff wasn’t a full-time job or expected to be.
Somewhere a coyote talked to a nonresponsive moon and the broken land took on a ghostly look in all directions. Bones of animals were radiant in the soft moonlight. Overhead an owl screeched and flew after a later supper. Holt avoided staring at the moon. That was bad luck. Besides, he needed to concentrate on where they were headed.
Rose’s head bobbed and it looked like he had actually gone to sleep. Deed watched him slump forward in the saddle, then jerk awake. The process repeated itself several times as they rode.
They stopped to give the horses water from their canteens, and to sip some themselves. A cluster of wilted wildflowers provided something for the horses to eat. Around them, the night had the usual night sounds, which were comforting. Silka helped Tag from the packhorse and the dog went to Holt. After giving his horses and Tag water from his hat, Holt loosened the rope around Rose’s hands so he could exercise them and drink some offered water from his own canteen. He stayed in the saddle while the others dismounted. They decided not to switch horses; the trail had been relatively easy and level.
“How much farther?” Rose asked, after returning the canteen to his saddle horn.
“No more than three hours, I think,” Holt said and rubbed his unshaved chin. “Only been this way once before . . . and that was walking. But I think we’ll be there for breakfast.”
Rose nodded and Silka retied his hands to the saddle horn.
“How are you doing?” Deed asked, shoving his hat back on his forehead.
“I’m all right. Just weak,” Rose replied. “Guess I was lucky. That red bastard could’ve killed me.”
“Yeah, they had that in mind for all of us,” Deed said.
“W-will they follow us?”
“Hard to say. Hope not,” Deed answered. “Of course, they aren’t the only Indians in this region.”
Holt slapped his thigh for the dog and Tag reappeared with a dead field mouse in his mouth. Laughing, the oldest Corrigan put the dog back on the packhorse and let him enjoy his find.
Holt stepped into the saddle. “We stung them hard. They don’t like that, especially a devil like Achak. He has to come after us, to prove his medicine is good.”
“Where would they go if they didn’t?” Rose asked, looking at his wrapped wrists.
“Oh, likely they would hit some ranch or farm at the edge of Hammonds. Someplace without a lot of firepower.” Holt nudged his horse into a trot.
“Damn.”
“The army is always going after the Indians to get them back on the reservation. Wouldn’t those Indians worry about that?” Rose asked, worry in his voice.
Deed replied, “Yes, but they know the army is nowhere close now. So we’d be a nice prize with these horses . . . and guns.” Deed looked around the quiet land.
“Wouldn’t mind seeing some boys in blue right about now,” Deed said.
“Actually, I wouldn’t, either.”
They rode on into the night. Morning light was teasing the hillside as they reined up among boulders and brush inside the narrow box canyon he had visited earlier. To his left was a low set of rolling hills. Holt remembered they had reminded him of a woman lying on her side. This time he didn’t even smile.
“A spring’s over there,” Holt pointed. “It’s fresh and cold.”
“Sounds good.” Deed eased from his saddle, feeling weary all over.
A field rat darted across the opening, followed by another. Holt helped Rose from the saddle after untying his restraints. The wounded townsman had difficulty standing. Holt held him in place until Rose insisted he could walk. The young sheriff guided him to a level place among the rocks where Deed had laid out a blanket for him. Rose was asleep in minutes.
Deed and Silka unsaddled the horses, including the packhorse. Tag went exploring. The
y watered the tired animals and rubbed them down with sacks empty from holding oats. After that effort, the horses were given nosebags of grain and picketed. Holt started a small fire, being careful to use wood that wouldn’t smoke.
After the fire had steadied itself, he took the coffeepot from their supplies and filled it from the stream. The aroma of boiling coffee and sizzling bacon reminded all of them that they were hungry. Holt decided to make biscuits and soon his shirt was dotted with white flour.
“Going to have any flour left for more biscuits down the road?” Deed teased as he walked from the horses.
“If there isn’t, you’ll go without.”
Breakfast was good, especially Holt’s biscuits. Tag smelled the breakfast, too, and enjoyed his share. Silka took the first sentry while the Corrigan brothers slept. All of them were worn out. Carrying Holt’s field glasses, Silka climbed up the rocky slope, blotched with patches of brush so he could get a view of what was happening, if anything, outside the small canyon.
It took time to get high enough, but his concern was on the prairie, not the canyon entrance. He was uneasy about them being in an enclosure with only one way out. Deed hadn’t been concerned. Neither was Holt. His examination of the land was reassuring. No signs of dust in any direction. Yet he was strangely alert. Strangely worried. A sense of danger filled him and he didn’t know why.
Behind him was movement. Slight but definite. Silka’s fighting instincts saved his life. Without turning to see, he took a quick step to his left and then spun around. His movement was enough. A Comanche lunged at him, slashing his arm with his scalp knife, instead of catching Silka’s throat as intended.
Silka slammed the butt of his Winchester against the warrior’s head and looked up. Two more Comanche appeared like ghosts from thirty feet away. Both had drawn bows. An arrow hit Silka in the chest and a second drove into his right thigh. He fired his gun, levering it as fast as he could.