Fitch ran after him, chasing and shooting. Dog Fat kept zigging when Fitch thought he was going to zag, causing Fitch to keep missing. He pegged another round, missing the Indian but creasing the horse’s rump. With a shriek, it upreared on its hind legs.
Dog Fat grabbed his rifle from where it was tied to the saddle, taking it with him as he fell off the horse. He lay prone on the ground, shooting at Fitch, whose gun was empty. He hit Fitch in the middle, mortally wounding him.
Fitch staggered but kept on going, mechanically working the trigger of his empty gun.
Dog Fat shot again and Fitch fell down.
On hands and knees, the brave started to get up, but his fear-crazed horse stepped on him, trampling him under. Dog Fat screamed, trying to get out from under flailing razor-edged hooves.
Frightened all the more, the horse began dancing on him, pounding him flat. Finally breaking loose, it ran away. Dog Fat lay in place, writhing like a half-squashed bug.
Still standing by the crate, Maldito was next on Sam’s list. He was a bad one. Sam knew his history, knew the world would be well improved by his removal from it. But Sefton, though dead, was blocking Sam’s clear shot on the dwarfish brave.
Sam shifted gears, swinging the rifle in line with another target—one of the outlaws guarding the corral. Sam’s shot slammed him to the ground.
Thinking his partner had been downed by Comanches, the other guard cut loose at the nearest knot of braves, levering his rifle as he pumped lead. Shrieks rang out as braves went down.
Similar scenes were being enacted all over the place. Comanches and gun sellers were blasting at each other. Blood, noise, and death were everywhere.
Horses in the corral panicked. They crowded near the gate, pressing against it, shying, sidling, and shouldering. The gate flew open, slamming back against the fence, tearing loose from the rope hinges. The animals bolted from the corral, fanning out, racing for open spaces. Woe to anyone luckless enough to be in their way!
They ran down white and red men alike, plowing them under. Trampling was not necessarily fatal but it didn’t help. When the last horse had escaped the mangled victims were in pretty bad shape. They wouldn’t be getting up in a hurry.
The fugitive horses kicked up a lot of dust, further obscuring the scene.
Ricketts’s jaw had dropped in open-mouthed astonishment when the shooting started, causing the lit cigar to fall. It dropped into the trough of the boot beneath the box seat. He ducked down and fumbled for the cigar, dropping it several times before getting a good grip on it.
He had a mission to carry out—blow up the wagon if the Comanches tried to take it. Well, if they didn’t take it, it wouldn’t be for lack of trying. They were sure enough on the warpath.
With trembling hands, Ricketts pressed the lit end of the cigar to the tip of the fuse, whose curling cord-like length terminated in a wooden keg filled with black gunpowder. The fuse sputtered into life, burning like a Fourth of July sparkler.
A bullet tore into his upper body, knocking him off balance. It threw him for a loop, and he let go of the fuse. A canny Comanche had shot him to forestall lighting the fuse, but he was too late. The fuse was lit and burning.
Ricketts pitched forward and to the side, falling in front of the wagon. He rose to his knees. A shot drilled him through the chest. He went down again, not getting up.
A Comanche brave rushed the wagon, knife in hand, intending to cut the fuse before it touched off the gunpowder. He clambered up the front seat of the wagon just in time to catch a bullet from Chait’s gun. He pitched backward into the dirt.
The sputtering fuse burned lower, way low. Maldito started toward the wagon but shifted course fast when he saw the brave who was climbing the wagon get cut down. He flung himself to one side, saving himself from the bullet Sam pegged at him. Sam wanted Maldito dead and that gunpowder bomb blowing the gun wagon to kingdom come.
Maldito scrambled behind some rocks, crawling on hands and knees, too low for Sam to hit.
Sam breathed a silent curse. Maldito is lucky, damn him!
He stayed out of Sam’s line of fire, preventing Sam from taking him down with a follow-up shot.
A couple of braves leveled rifles to cut loose on Melbourne and Chait. Rifles traded fire with six-guns. Chait dodged for cover, catching a bullet for his trouble. Melbourne swung his gun around to cover Chait. A Comanche rifle tagged him, spilling him into the dust.
Grounded, they were prime targets for Comanche bullets, which riddled them. They writhed and spasmed as each fresh slug ripped them, but soon they lay still and unresponsive. They were dead.
Sam had fewer opportunities for clear shots, but he managed to pick off one or two shapes amid the dust and smoke. Comanches and gunrunners were doing a pretty good job of picking each other off without his help.
Bison Creek was aswirl with gun smoke and dust. Men became dim outlined forms, stumbling and staggering. Gunfire lanced the murk with bright red and yellow lines seeking targets. Outcries sounded when a shot speared a man.
Time had run out on the fast-burning fuse. Its last fractional length sparked and sizzled its way into the big keg of black powder. There was a chuffing sound, like the heavy outrush of breath of some great beast, as the gunpowder ignited. Detonating.
The wagon and its contents vanished in a flash of light. A glare bright as the sun filled the space where the wagon had been. The explosion was a vortex of blazing forces—heat, light, and noise.
Sam ducked down, curling up in the hollow of the shooter’s nest. He flattened himself as best he could, keeping his head down, clutching his rifle, and hugging it to him.
The ground shook. A brief thought flashed through him. It would be a hell of a note if the blast tore loose the rim of the cliff top where he was perched, sending him crashing down amid tons of rubble to add his remains to the boneyard.
A pillar of smoke and fire thrust skyward from the flat below. A vortex sucked up wreckage, hurling it aloft. The blast was followed by a rain of debris.
Sam was temporarily deafened by the explosion. The earth had been hammered like a gong, making his ears ring. Sam was in none too much of a hurry to stick his head up, not with all the debris pelting down. Some of it was big enough to knock a man’s brains out. The cliff top was peppered with the stuff.
The downfall lessened, playing out. Sam uncurled himself, sitting up. His body ached from head to toe, the result of the concussive blast. He felt beat up, like he’d been hammered with iron fists and feet.
Beaten up? A thought struck him, making him grin. “Think this is bad? You should see the other fellow!”
Things had worked out better than he’d expected thanks to the keg of black powder Honest Bob had rigged as a last-ditch defense against being plundered by Comanches. It might not have made a clean sweep below, but Sam reckoned there wouldn’t be many survivors.
Standing up on shaky legs, he brushed himself off. Finding out if dirt had gotten into the rifle barrel and inner workings was a top priority. He didn’t dare fire the rifle until he’d given it a clean bill of health. At least the cliff side hadn’t come tumbling down, taking him with it. He grinned again. A lucky break!
Sam peered through the brush at the flat below. There wasn’t much to see—dirty air, dirty sky, all paled by dust and smoke, like a low-level sandstorm. Yellow-brown billows slowly rolled across the plains, stately as sailing ships. Strands of black smoke coiled serpent-like through earthbound yellow-brown clouds.
Sounds? All he could hear mostly was the ringing in his ears.
He didn’t want to break cover yet in case there were any survivors below to see him. That wouldn’t fit in with his long-range plans.
Let gunrunners and Comanches alike think that the other side had betrayed them. Let the word go out to the bucket-of-blood saloons and deadfall dives, up into Comancheria, and south down the Comanche Trail deep into Mexico. Rumors of treachery would sow suspicion, causing discord and mistrust between gunrunners and C
omanches and poisoning relations between the two.
Time passed. Dust settled though the yellow-brown haze that remained, deepened by long shadows of gathering dusk.
Bison Creek looked like what it was, a battlefield. Bodies of men and horses littered the flat. The gun wagon was gone, pulverized. A wide shallow crater still smoldered, marking where the wagon had stood. The crater walls were streaked by veins and rays of dark brown earth heaved up to the surface. A heavy gunpowder smell hung over all.
Stray horses that had fled the corral roamed the prairie. Of the two-legged survivors of the battle and blast, there were only a few. A handful of riders raced south. Another small group hurried north. Neither bunch had the heart to keep fighting. They were getting out while they could.
Easy enough to figure what had happened. The Comanches who’d come out alive were the ones riding south, while the last gunrunners ran north.
The ordinarily horse-mad Comanches must’ve been pretty hard hit to pass up the chance to round up some of the many strays roaming the range. If they wanted to return to the Quesada homeland in the Llano, they’d have to get clear of the cliffs before striking west.
Sam had a pretty good idea where the gunrunners were bound. Their goal most likely was home base at the Hog Ranch near Fort Pardee. There they could lick their wounds while working up fresh new devilments.
Something must be done about the Hog Ranch soon, Sam resolved. Something massive. He grinned, satisfied. “Still, in all, a good day’s work!”
FOUR
Dusty was a warhorse. He’d been in battle amid the cannon fire, blood, and smoke. The big blast had made him restless but not so much as to spook him into running. Dusty wasn’t much for spooking.
Sam went to him. The horse nuzzled him, nudging him with its snout.
“Hey boy! Glad to see me? I’m glad to see you! Some blast, huh? Still it’s not so much compared to some we’ve seen.”
Dusty was lively, alert. Sam got his hands on the animal. The comforting hands reassured the horse, gentling him down. Not that he needed much gentling. He was a warhorse
Sam stroked the animal’s snout and sleek powerful neck. He kept up a line of patter, nonsense really, but felt that Dusty took some comfort in the sound of his voice. He knew that he took comfort in talking to him. “You’ve got more sense than most people I know, horse.”
He poured water from a canteen into his upturned hat and held it under Dusty’s mouth so the horse could drink. He gave him two hatfuls. Dusty could have gone for several more, but Sam was running low on water. After Dusty drank, Sam had some water from his canteen.
Strapped to the saddle so that it lay along Dusty’s left side, its long axis horizontal, was a long, flat, wooden box. Sam unfastened it, taking it down. He sat on the ground cross-legged. “Indian style” folks called it, or sometimes “tailor style.” Placing the long box on a folded blanket, he unlatched and lifted the lid. Inside, the box was lined with cushiony velour type fabric, with hollow areas shaped to hold gun parts.
He had examined the Winchester earlier and found that no dirt had fouled it and it was in good working order. It had completed a big job and was due for a thorough cleaning and oiling, but that must wait until later. He broke down the rifle, unscrewing the long barrel and add-on stock, restoring it to its basic proportions as a mule’s leg.
He fitted barrel and stock extensions in the cushioning shaped spaces designed to receive them. Securing the gun parts, he closed the lid and fastened the box to its fittings on the saddle.
A saddlebag yielded the gun belt for the mule’s leg, a custom leather rig with a long thigh-length holster. He holstered the mule’s leg, fastening the leather strap at the top to keep the piece buttoned down tight until needed.
Sam took several empty canteens and slung them by the straps across his shoulders. He unfastened a lariat fixed to the right side of his saddle, slipped his arm through the center hole, and slung it over his shoulder.
He patted Dusty’s muscular neck affectionately. “Be back soon, boy.” He had a job to do. He wanted accurate information about the butcher’s bill for today’s fracas—who’d lived and who’d died—but riding to the end of the bench where the cliffs rejoined the flat, then riding to Bison Creek would be a big investment of time and energy. He needed a shortcut and he had one—straight down.
Sam went to the edge of the cliff. The twenty-five-foot drop from cliff top to Bison Creek was a barrier to a rider, but not to a climber. His rope was long enough to reach the bottom. He could climb down and back up.
He scanned the scene below. It seemed empty of all human presence.
Sam hitched one end of the rope to a bent but sturdy tree, testing his weight against it. It passed the test. He let the other end fall down the face of the cliff.
He double-checked the gear on his person, making sure it was all secure and squared away. He pulled on a pair of wrist-length, rawhide range gloves, flexing his fingers inside them for a snug fit, then took hold of the rope and started down. The hempen cord was made to withstand the efforts of a charging bull or runaway horse. It held his weight.
Down he went, using the irregular rock face as a stepping-stone.
He touched ground, taking cover behind a shoulder-high boulder, and loosened the holster strap on the mule’s leg to get the piece into action fast. Crouched low, he began prowling the site.
Sam eyed his handiwork and found it good. The carnage was rough, but he’d seen—and done—worse. Always on the side of the angels, of course.
Debris from the explosion was spread over a wide uneven field.
First order of business was to make sure the dead were really dead. A mortally wounded man could still slay a perfectly healthy one. Beware the cunning enemy playing possum. He moved from body to body, Navy Colt in hand.
There were no ringers among the cadavers. The dead were well and truly dead. Some had escaped the reckoning to ride away, he knew. He’d seen them. He wanted a better idea of who had cheated the Grim Reaper and who hadn’t.
Some of the bodies were mutilated beyond recognition, others were badly burned. Several had perished not by blast, gunfire, or blade but by explosive-powered shrapnel. Wooden shards and staves had been turned into high-speed lightning-like flying daggers.
A stir of motion behind Sam sent him spinning around, gun ready.
A brave who lay nearby, half-buried under a heap of rubble, was propped up on an elbow, raising his upper body. His arm was upraised and in motion, hand holding a knife ready for throwing. The blade leaped into the air, whirling, glittering.
Sam fired without thinking, shooting the knife out of the air. The brave flinched, eyes wide, hands thrown up in front of his face to protect against shrapnel.
If Sam had had time to think about it, he’d never have made that shot.
Lucky shot! A close one, he thought.
The brave groaned, sinking back down flat to the ground. The secret of the Comanche’s survival showed on his twisted form. His lower body was crushed below the waist, buried under several hundred pounds of rocky debris. His upper body was relatively undamaged, save for swelling and mortification caused by the maiming of his lower half.
He’d been awake and aware when Sam started nosing around the scene. Opportunity presented itself when Sam had turned his back to examine a nearby victim. The brave gambled on a toss of the knife. Sam couldn’t help but admire his single-minded dedication to slay a last foeman en route to the Great Dark.
Sam approached him warily. Standing over him, he held his gun along his side, pointing down. He was ready to use it if the warrior had any more surprises.
The Comanche’s gaze was steady, his expression set in grim lines of silent suffering. He would fight to the last to keep from showing how great his pain was. “Good shot,” the brave said in English, forming his words with difficulty, his voice weak. “Your gods with you today . . .”
Nothing to say to that. Sam shrugged.
“You—Tejano?” t
he brave asked, meaning Texan.
“American,” Sam said. “Yanqui.” A Yankee.
“Good . . . hate Tejanos.” The brave looked pointedly at Sam’s gun, raising his gaze to meet Sam’s eyes. “You kill, eh?”
Sam hesitated.
The brave looked down at his body beneath the waist, twisted, mangled, and buried under several hundred pounds of rocks and dirt. “No good.” He shook his head no. “You kill . . . kill quick . . .”
Sam nodded, lifting the gun. The brave nodded encouragingly. Sam pointed the gun at him. He fired once, delivering the coup de grâce of a bullet in the head.
Sometimes the greatest act of mercy was providing a quick neat exit.
The gunshot startled some nearby buzzards feasting on a choice carcass. One buzzard flew away with a great flapping of wings. The others remained earthbound at their places at the feast, returning to their feeding before the last echoes of the gunshot had faded.
Sam resumed making the circuit, going from body to body. When he had examined the last, he totaled up the score.
Most of the top men were dead—Honest Bob Longford and Felipe Mercurio, Eagle Feather and Han-Tay.
Some key players had escaped, most notably Hump Colway. No worries about mistaken identity there. No amount of damage could disguise that body with its distinctive humped back. Nature had compensated him for his deformity by giving him a cunning brain, steel nerves, and plenty of guts. His escape from the killing ground showed he was lucky, too. A formidable combination and a dangerous man.
Hump Colway would be heard from again, sooner probably rather than later.
Maldito, too, that imp of Satan, had postponed his day of reckoning. Sam had very much wanted to bag him, but Maldito had had the Devil’s own luck working for him and had escaped. He was a vicious foe. The latest setback wouldn’t improve his disposition any.
Rio, Mercurio’s bodyguard, also seemed to have gotten clear, but Sam couldn’t be sure. Several bodies loosely matched Rio’s specifications, but they were too badly burned or blasted to verify their identity. Sam’s gut feeling was that when a bad hombre like Rio was among the missing, chances were he was alive.
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