Someone inside the cabin screamed. A woman, Matt thought grimly. Probably the boy’s mother.
Sunlight flashed on the heavy blade of the knife the renegade held at the captive’s throat.
“Come out or the boy dies!” the warrior called in good English he had probably learned on the reservation.
One of the shutters flew open. A woman looked out in bug-eyed horror and cried, “Tommy!”
Somebody inside the cabin grabbed her and dragged her away from the window as rifles blasted outside. A man’s arm came in sight as he tried to reach out and pull the shutter closed again. Blood flew as a bullet hammered through the back of his hand and made him howl in pain. Even wounded, though, he managed to grab the short piece of rope attached to the shutter as a handle and jerk it. The shutter thumped back into place.
A second later, guns roared from inside the house as the defenders opened fire again. None of their bullets came close to the renegade with the hostage, however. They couldn’t shoot at him without risking the boy’s life.
That might not have made any difference, because the Comanche let out a shrill war cry and raised the knife. Matt knew he was about to either plunge it into the boy’s chest or cut his throat.
Matt brought the rifle up, socketed the butt firmly against his shoulder, and took half a second to aim. That was all the time he had.
He pressed the trigger.
The boom of the shot was pretty well lost in the racket from all the other gunfire, but the results were obvious. The bullet took the renegade in the side of the head just as the knife started to fall, bored through his brain, and exploded out the other side of his skull in a pink spray of blood and bone. He dropped like a stone, letting go of both the boy and the knife.
It was a near-miraculous shot, and Matt knew he might not have been able to make it again.
But he had made it this time and that was what counted.
The results were instant. As soon as the renegade let go of him and collapsed, the boy took off running. He had the presence of mind not to try to make it to the cabin. He never would have survived a dash across that open ground. The Indians would have shot him in the back if he’d attempted it.
Instead he turned and sprinted back into the trees, which were a lot closer. Matt lost sight of him right away.
At the same time, a couple of the renegades must have realized where the fatal shot had come from, because they turned and started up the ridge toward Matt’s position.
He didn’t give them a chance to reach him. The Winchester’s lever flashed down and then back up as he worked it. The rifle cracked as it bucked against his shoulder. The slug tore through one renegade’s torso and knocked him off his feet. He started tumbling back down the hill.
Almost before that man hit the ground, Matt had worked the rifle’s lever again and shifted his aim. Once more the Winchester barked its deadly message. This time the target stumbled from the slug’s impact but stayed on his feet until Matt drilled him a second time. That put the renegade down for good.
By now the rest of the raiders were beginning to realize they were caught in a crossfire. They went to the ground, hunting better cover, and within a matter of seconds Matt couldn’t see them anymore.
He knew they were still there, though, because bullets began to crackle through the brush and trees around him. He ducked behind a tree as a slug whined past his ear.
Now it was a question of whether the renegades would break off their attack on the ranch to come after him. He hoped they would, even though that would increase his personal danger. He wanted to draw them away from the cabin and give those settlers a better chance to survive.
He continued throwing lead at the raiders, although he had to aim by sound now that he could no longer see them. The longer he could keep them occupied and concentrating on him, the better.
A faint whisper of sound in the brush to his left was all the warning he had. As instinct made him turn in that direction, one of the Comanche lunged into the open and flew at him in a diving tackle.
Matt swung the Winchester and clipped the renegade on the jaw with the barrel, but the man’s momentum carried him into Matt anyway. The collision’s impact knocked Matt over backward.
He rolled and threw the attacker off him. Matt was up instantly on one knee and drove the rifle’s butt down at the man’s head. It landed in the middle of the renegade’s face with a crunch of gristle and bone.
Another branch crackled, this time to Matt’s right. He twisted in that direction and fired the Winchester from the hip as he caught sight of a face twisted in a hate-filled snarl. The slug caught the raider under the chin and angled on up into his brain. He toppled as blood fountained from the wound.
Matt surged to his feet and glanced at the man he had struck with the rifle. The renegade was dead with blood leaking out of his ears. In a matter of moments, Matt had killed five of the Comanche, cutting their force almost in half.
But there were still more than half a dozen of them on the loose, so he wasn’t out of the woods yet—literally.
More crashing in the brush made him lift the Winchester. He saw movement and almost fired, but he held off on the trigger at the last second.
The boy who had been taken prisoner by the Indians burst into view, stopped short, and stared at Matt over the barrel of the rifle. His face was pale to start with and dusted with freckles, but it got even more washed out as he must have realized how close he had just come to dying.
“Gosh, mister!” he said. “Don’t shoot!”
Matt started to lower the Winchester, then whipped it up again and squeezed the trigger. The boy yelped in terror, then looked over his shoulder as he realized that Matt had targeted something behind him.
Another of the renegades lay there, staring sightlessly at the live oak branches above them. Matt’s bullet had left a neat hole between his eyes.
More of the raiders were on their way, though. Matt heard them coming. He glanced around, spotted a deadfall several yards away, and grabbed the boy’s arm.
“Come on, kid,” he said. “We’ve got to hunt cover.”
They ran for the log and vaulted over it. As they did so, shots rang out and slugs exploded splinters from the rotten wood. Matt pushed the boy down on the ground and thrust the rifle barrel over the log.
The odds were against them, but he would make a fight of it. He saw shapes flitting through the trees and said under his breath, “Here they come.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Matt opened fire as several of the renegades burst into sight. He didn’t have time to see if any of his shots hit their targets because the enemy sent a volley of hot lead screaming back at him. He had to duck as the slugs struck the log and showered him with bits of rotten wood.
An Indian vaulted over the log and fired his rifle at close range. The shot pounded Matt’s ears like a fist. He felt the fiery lick of the bullet as it passed close to his cheek and dug into the ground next to his head. Holding his Winchester one-handed, he shoved the muzzle under the renegade’s chin and pulled the trigger. The man’s head blew apart in large chunks. A sticky mix of blood and brains showered down on Matt.
He rolled and threw himself on top of the boy to shield the slender form with his own body. Dropping the Winchester, he snatched his Colt from its holster. The revolver was better for close work like this. It boomed and bucked in his hand as he triggered a couple of shots and saw another of the attackers spin away with blood flying from his wounds.
Then another volley roared nearby. Bullets scythed through the trees, cutting down several of the renegades. A familiar voice shouted, “Come on, men!”
Major Macmillan and the rest of the patrol had arrived and not a moment too soon.
The renegades who were still on their feet turned to flee. Matt pushed himself up on his left hand and fired the Colt in his right. His slugs drove into the back of one raider, made the man cry out and stumble, then pitch forward onto his face.
Normally Matt p
referred his fights face to face, but after seeing what these savages had done in earlier raids, he knew he wouldn’t lose one second of sleep over shooting the man in the back like that. Any of the renegades who got away meant that the settlers in this region were still in danger.
The fight didn’t last long once the troopers rushed down the ridge and plunged into the thick of the melee. The Comanche were outnumbered now, and in a matter of moments, all of them had been cut down.
As the shooting died away, Matt looked down at the boy and asked, “Are you all right, son?”
The boy swallowed hard and nodded.
“Yeah, I . . . I think so, mister,” he said. “I figured I was a goner for sure, though, when that Injun grabbed me.”
“What were you doing?”
“Tryin’ to get a squirrel for my ma’s stew pot.” The boy swallowed again. “That blasted squirrel was dang near the death of me.”
Matt chuckled and got to his feet. He reloaded the Colt, pouched the iron, and then reached down to give the youngster a hand. While he was doing that, Major Macmillan, Sergeant Houlihan, and Private Brenham came over to them.
“Looks like we got here just in time, Matt,” Macmillan said.
“Yeah, another couple of minutes would’ve been too late, Major,” Matt agreed. “Those varmints were about to overrun us.”
Macmillan nodded toward Brenham and said, “You can thank the private for that. He rode hard to find us, and then pushed us to get back here as fast as we could.”
Matt smiled at the Southerner and said, “I’m obliged to you, Taw, and so is . . .” He looked over at the boy and asked, “What’s your name, son?”
“Tommy Chadwick, sir. That ranch down yonder belongs to my pa.”
“I’m Matt Jensen,” Matt introduced himself. “This is Major Macmillan.”
“Son,” Macmillan said as he nodded. “We’d better get down there and make sure the rest of your family came through this fracas all right.”
“I hope they did,” Tommy said. “They ought to be fine if they all got in the house quick enough. Pa built it sturdy. He said we might have to fight off Injuns now and then. Never had no trouble until now, though.”
Macmillan turned to Houlihan and said, “Sergeant, check on the enemy and see if there are any captives to deal with.”
“Yes, sir,” Houlihan said. Matt caught the glint in the man’s eyes. He was pretty sure Houlihan would report that all the renegades were dead, even if he had to help some of them along into the next world.
Houlihan wasn’t likely to forget what had happened at those other ranches, either.
Matt, Macmillan, and Tommy walked down the slope toward the double cabin. The doors opened before they got there. A stout woman with graying brown hair rushed out and cried, “Tommy!”, then hurried to meet them and threw her arms around the boy in a hug.
“Aw, Ma!” Tommy said. Now that the danger was over he was embarrassed by such a show of affection, as any boy his age would have been.
A middle-aged man who was probably Tommy’s father trailed the woman. He had a bloody rag wrapped around his hand as a bandage, indicating that he was the one who had reached out to close the shutter on the window.
He was followed by a pair of boys in their late teens, a girl about fifteen, and a girl a little younger than Tommy. Matt saw smears of powder smoke grime on the faces of the older boys and the older girl and knew they had taken part in the fighting. Youngsters sometimes had to grow up quickly out here on the frontier.
The man patted Tommy awkwardly on the shoulder, then turned to Matt and the major. As he stuck out his hand, he said, “I’m John Chadwick. I reckon my boy owes his life to you fellas. Probably the rest of us do, too. I’m obliged to you more than I could ever say.”
“We’re here to protect the settlers from renegades,” Macmillan said as he shook hands with Chadwick. “I’m Major Patrick Macmillan, in command of this patrol from Fort Griffin. This is our scout, Matt Jensen.”
Chadwick clasped Matt’s hand and said, “I think I’ve heard of you, Mr. Jensen. Sure was our good fortune that you came along today.”
“I’m glad we did,” Matt said. “We were on our way here to warn you that there might be trouble.”
“You know, when we settled here, I expected a raid from time to time, but it’s been so peaceful in these parts I guess we all sort of let our guards down. These Indians are the first ones we’ve seen except for some old-timers passing through once in a while. They never seemed like they wanted any trouble.”
“Since Colonel Mackenzie broke the back of the Comanche resistance a few years ago up at Palo Duro Canyon, most of them have moved onto the reservation in Indian Territory,” Macmillan explained. “But there are always a few firebrands who can’t stand to be tamed. They jump the reservation and go raiding now and then.” He paused, then added grimly, “This bunch won’t do that again.”
“I hope you’ll stay a spell,” Chadwick said. “We’d like to put on a feast and show you men just how much we appreciate what you’ve done.”
Macmillan smiled and said, “That might could be arranged, although we can’t delay too long in returning to the fort—”
He stopped as Houlihan approached them. The little Irish non-com was frowning.
“What’s wrong, Sergeant?” Macmillan asked.
Houlihan jerked a thumb over his shoulder and said, “We got fourteen dead Comanch’ here, Major.”
“That’s about how many we expected, isn’t it?”
“Problem is, ain’t none of ’em got that half-moon mark.”
Matt knew what Houlihan was talking about. He had seen the report that had been sent out to the different forts in Texas, listing the names and descriptions of the men who had left the reservation. The leader of the group, Black Moon, had gotten that name because of a black, half-moon-shaped mark on the left side of his face. The stain had been left there when someone had fired a gun practically in his face during a battle when he was a young man. The burning powder had pitted and blackened his skin permanently.
“Are you sure, Sergeant?” Macmillan asked. “Perhaps you should check again.”
“Already checked twice, sir. That devil ain’t here.”
“Maybe he was killed in one of those earlier raids,” Macmillan suggested. “The people at those ranches fought back, after all, before they were massacred.”
Houlihan shrugged and said, “Could be.” It was obvious, though, that he didn’t really believe it.
Neither did Matt. Black Moon was the ringleader of the group that had jumped the reservation. It was likely none of the other warriors would have turned renegade without his urging. Maybe they would have continued their rampage anyway if Black Moon had been killed, but Matt thought it more likely they would have tried to head back to Indian Territory and sneak onto the reservation, hoping to escape punishment for what they had done.
No, his gut told him that Black Moon was still alive and out there somewhere, having slipped away from this ranch when it became obvious to him that his followers were about to be wiped out.
John Chadwick frowned and asked, “Do you think we need to worry about this Indian you’re talking about, Major?”
Macmillan shook his head without hesitation and said, “No, he’s just one man. I don’t think he represents any real threat. Local authorities can handle him from here on out. We’ll spread the word that he may be in the vicinity so the Rangers and other lawmen can keep an eye out for him.”
“I’m not sure that’s good enough, Major,” Matt said.
Macmillan sounded a little annoyed as he asked, “What do you mean?”
“You’re going back to Fort Griffin, aren’t you?”
“That’s right. I can’t justify keeping an entire patrol out just to hunt for one man.”
“You shouldn’t need me anymore, though. I think I’ll see if I can pick up Black Moon’s trail.”
“You’re going after him by yourself?”
Matt s
miled.
“Like you said, he’s only one man.”
Matt could tell that the major didn’t like the decision he had made, but Macmillan had no way of stopping him. Matt was a civilian and subject to the officer’s orders only as long as he was riding with the patrol. He hadn’t signed a contract, so if he went off on his own it was none of the army’s business.
Chadwick said, “You’ll wait and let us feed you a good meal before you set out, won’t you, Mr. Jensen?”
“I reckon I can do that,” Matt replied with a smile. “And I’m obliged to you for it.”
“Not as much as we are to you.” Chadwick put a hand on Tommy’s shoulder again. “You saved my son’s life.”
“Sergeant, have the men bring in their horses,” Macmillan ordered. “We’ll be stopped here for a while.”
“Yes, sir,” Houlihan said. He hurried off to carry out the order.
Matt gazed at the wooded slopes of Dark Valley. He didn’t like the gloomy place any more than he had when he’d first laid eyes on it.
In fact, he liked it even less . . . because he knew there was a good chance that somewhere out there was a crazed killer named Black Moon.
CHAPTER NINE
The Texas Hill Country
Seth Barrett put his shoulder against the back end of the wagon and heaved. Beside him, a short, stocky boy of ten grunted as he threw all his strength into the effort as well. Charlie couldn’t help much, Seth knew, but the youngster thought of himself as the man of the family because his father was dead. It was important for him to try to do as much as he could.
The wagon didn’t budge, though. Its wheels remained stuck in the mud.
The blasted mud was the result of more than a week of intermittent, unseasonal downpours. Folks around here talked about how it never rained like this in December, nearing Christmastime. But it was raining this year, and that was all that mattered.
Seth stopped pushing and straightened up to catch his breath. He leaned to the side to call to the woman who stood at the heads of the mule team hitched to the wagon, “We’ll try again in a minute, Mrs. Kennedy.”
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