by J. T. Edson
‘Who are you?’ demanded Moon Watcher, first to recover from his surprise at the Kid’s appearance.
‘My people call me Cuchilo, the Knife.’
‘Who are your people?’ the medicine man inquired.
Releasing his hold of the lance with his right hand, the Kid turned it palm downwards. With his forearm bent before his chest, he moved it to the right in a wriggling motion.
‘The Snake Going Backwards!’ breathed Moon Watcher.
‘I am of the Nemenuh,’ agreed the Kid.
‘The Enemy People,’ said Bear Killer, nodding in acceptance. Three names, but they all meant one thing—Comanche. The tribal sign came from an old Comanche legend. xi No matter to which band he belonged, any Comanche said he was Nemenuh, one of the People. To all other tribes the last name proved most correct. Even those tribes, like the Kaddo, who occasionally lived at peace with the Comanche, used the name Tshaoh, the Enemy People.
While the older men present showed signs of being impressed, a couple of young bucks let out derisive laughs. Fresh from their first war trail, each showed signs of successful encounters. One wore Sandel’s gunbelt with the Coopers in the holsters, although the bow he used to deliver the coup de grace to Tejas had been left in his tepee. The other cradled Tejas’ Spencer carbine on the crook of his arm and a scalp of long Indian-black hair dangled from his belt.
‘The Tshaoh used to be fighting men,’ jeered the buck with the Spencer. ‘But no more.’
‘Now they are like old squaws,’ his companion went on.
‘Begging for food and shelter from the white m—’
The first part of the conversation had been in Spanish, a language most Texas Indians understood. While the Kid spoke some Kaddo, he wanted Mark to be able to follow what was said. Hearing the mocking words, the Kid acted as would any Comanche tehnap xii when insulted by a youngster barely beyond the horse-herding age.
Pivoting smoothly around, he drove the butt of the lance shaft up and on to the jaw of the buck with the Spencer. In continuation of the move, as the buck reeled backwards and dropped his weapon, the Kid met the other’s challenge. One glance told him that he did not need to worry even though the second buck grabbed for the Coopers. Before either revolver cleared leather, the end of the lance rammed with some force into the buck’s belly. A strangled croak broke from him and he doubled over with hands clawing to his middle instead of continuing to draw the guns. With the lance still gripped in both hands, the Kid swung it up. He hooked the shaft under the offered jaw and heaved. Lifted erect, the buck went on over backwards to sprawl on the ground. Fast as a cougar leaping to its kill, the Kid straddled the buck’s body.
‘The choice is yours,’ he growled in the Kaddo language, holding the lance ready to strike. ‘Do you live or die?’
Any lingering doubts as to the Kid’s right to be called a Comanche died after his masterly display of lance handling. To the horse-Indians in general, and the Comanche most of all, the lance held a special position as a weapon. Only the bravest warrior carried one, accepting that he might be first into a fight and last out of it. Nor could he throw the lance, but must keep it in his hands and go close enough to use it.
Lying on the ground, the young buck suddenly realized just how precious life could be. He looked up, by the needle-sharp point and razor-edged blade of the lance to the savage face beyond and knew any hesitation would see the weapon thrust home. No man present would blame the Comanche—the Kid was all of that—for doing so under the circumstances.
‘I live!’ the buck croaked.
His companion came to a halt, standing dazed for a moment. Then, letting out a snarl, he dived for the carbine. Through the exhaustion which filled him, Mark recognized the Kid. All wonder at how the Kid came to be on hand departed as Mark saw the danger to his friend. Shoving himself forward, Mark reached the Kid’s side and curled his hand about the grips of the old Dragoon. Handling a strange weapon, from an awkward position, Mark could not produce his full blinding speed. Yet he drew fast enough. The buck’s hands closed on the Spencer when the Dragoon boomed in Mark’s hand. Dirt erupted into the Kaddo’s face, temporarily blinding him. While Mark did not shoot for such an effect, it served his needs better than had the lead sunk into the buck. Spluttering, the brave dropped the carbine and sat knuckling his eyes in an attempt to clear them. When he finally managed to focus again, he found himself faced with the yawning muzzle of the Dragoon and lined blade of the lance. Again the Kid gave the choice and once more the recipient elected to live.
Holding the Colt, Mark expected the rest of the braves to jump him and the kid. None of the crowd moved but admiration flickered on more than one face. The Kaddo respected courage or dexterity in the use of weapons, both of which the two Texans had demonstrated.
‘Are you all right, amigo?’ asked the Kid.
‘I’ll do. Lifting the rock didn’t trouble me, but shooting off this fool cannon like to bust my arm.’
‘Leather it, pronto. We can’t fight our way through this bunch, so we’ll have to talk our way out. Act like you expect your warrior’s due.’
‘You’re the Injun,’ Mark said dryly and dropped the Dragoon back into its holster. ‘Now let’s see what happens.’
‘Get my brother a drink of water,’ the Kid said to Bear Killer. ‘He passed the test and is a free man.’
‘Do it,’ the chief ordered and a girl ran to obey. ‘You say your name is Cuchilo. Are you the grandson of Long Walker?’
Once more the conversation went into Spanish. ‘I am,’ agreed the Kid.
A low mutter passed around the crowd for all knew the story of the treaty council at Fort Sherrard, especially the Kid’s part in it.
‘What brought you here, Cuchilo?’ asked the old medicine man.
‘I heard there were foolish words of war being spoken among the Kaddo and hoped to see you make lies of them.’
Moon Watcher nodded, showing no surprise that the Kid had heard of the war talk. It had been the medicine man who told of the Kid’s exploits at the treaty council, although Moon Watcher never went near the Fort.
‘Why should we go the way of peace?’ demanded Bear Killer.
‘Because you will all be killed if you make war,’ the Kid replied.
‘We have guns like the soldier-coats now,’ a young brave pointed out, waving his Winchester.
‘Guns need bullets. You have few, the white men can get many. And they have wheel guns that can fire from where no rifle can reach them. They have guns which shoot bullets faster than a hundred men with rifles. The Nemenuh saw they could not fight such weapons. Do as my people did, ask the White Father in Austin to make a treaty with you. Go to him while you can still fight, not after you are beaten and must take whatever they offer.’
‘Already the white men come to take our land—’ Bear Killer began, indicating the scared-looking Wycliffe who crouched on the ground with two lances lined on him.
‘That’s a lie,’ Mark interrupted and waved a hand towards the granite block. ‘That one lied to you. He planned to take the silver from this place and the men came to steal it from him.’
‘And why did you come, big one?’ Moon Watcher wanted to know.
‘They killed a man who had been like a father to me. I followed them.’
Every man present could understand Mark’s motives and heartily approved of them. To hunt down the killer of a close friend ranked as a prime virtue and did nothing to lessen the esteem he gained by his actions. Moving forward, Moon Watcher looked at Mark with his head cocked on one side.
‘Why did you listen to Hair Face’s words in the tepee?’
‘No man loses by listening to talk,’ Mark answered. ‘He told me much, but I did not say I would help him.’
‘That I know,’ Moon Watcher stated. ‘My son lay outside the tepee listening and he speaks your language.’
A grin flickered across Mark’s face, mirrored for a moment by the Kid. No matter that some Texans regarded Indian medicine me
n as fakes, both knew some to be remarkably shrewd, capable and with powers that no white man could fully understand. Certainly old Moon Watcher did not strike either as a charlatan and he seemed to have out-foxed Pegler.
‘So you knew what he meant to do?’ Mark said.
‘I knew it well,’ agreed the old man. ‘And so did Bear Killer.’
‘That was why I let Hair Face have you,’ the chief went on. ‘So that Moon Watcher’s son could listen as you talked.’
‘Do you want war, Bear Killer?’ Mark asked bluntly.
‘If the Great Spirit gave us medicine I would fight,’ the chief admitted.
‘Was that why you put that one to the test?’ Mark inquired, nodding to where Wycliffe sat on the floor under guard.
‘He came to our land to rob and killed Kaddo braves. One had a brother who called for revenge. I could not refuse.’
‘And what now, chief?’ demanded the Kid. ‘Do you still lead the braves to war?’
‘The medicine is broken, Cuchilo,’ Bear Killer replied. ‘We do not ride.’
‘Then meet the White Father in Austin. His heart is good to the Indian and he will treat you fairly.’
‘Will you and the big one speak for us if we do?’ asked Moon Watcher.
‘We will,’ agreed Mark. ‘We will arrange the day for you to come, but then we must ride. Our chief wants us with him as soon as possible.’
‘Don’t he just,’ drawled the Kid in English. ‘Ole Devil’ll be spitting eagle feathers and’s like to have us on the blister end of a shovel for weeks if we don’t get back to home real soon.’
‘Stay the night with us,’ suggested Bear Killer. ‘There is much to say.’
‘One thing I want, chief,’ Mark answered. ‘Him.’
‘He is yours, my brother,’ Bear Killer replied, following the direction of Mark’s finger and eyeing Wycliffe in disgust. ‘Take him when you leave in the morning.’
‘Y—You saved my life, friend,’ Wycliffe said as Mark came towards him.
‘Is Billy dead?’ Mark growled.
‘Not as I know of.’
‘Then, mister, you’d best hope I find him. If I don’t, I’ll see that you hang for Sailor Sam’s murder in his place.’
Sixteen – Not the Way to Use a Lance
Standing behind a clump of bushes, with Rags’ hand clamped over her mouth, Winnie wondered what had happened to make the men act in such a manner. She watched Billy Wycliffe and Augie moving cautiously down the slope, making use of every bit of cover available and carrying their rifles. Then a distant movement caught her eye and she looked in its direction.
Three men rode into sight through the trees and along the opposite side of the rolling ground before her. In the lead came a bareheaded Churn Wycliffe, seated on his fine bay mare, wearing an Indian buckskin shirt instead of his previous clothing. Slightly behind and to the right of Wycliffe rode a tall, slim youngster clad all in black and a’fork a magnificent white horse. At the left of Wycliffe, also just to the rear of the bearded man was—and Winnie could hardly believe her eyes—Mark Counter.
In some way, how she could not imagine, the blond giant had not only escaped from the Kaddo but met up with a friend and captured Churn Wycliffe. Even a naive country girl could figure that out. From the position they rode and the fact that they wore weapons while Wycliffe had none, it was obvious that the party did not travel as friends.
Then die meaning of Augie and Billy’s actions became clear to the girl. They planned to rescue Wycliffe and probably kill the two men with him. Unless she sadly misjudged Mark’s nature, killing him would be the only way to take away his prisoner. In addition to her aversion to standing by and watch murder done, she owed Mark her life. He saved her from the Kaddo and she saw a chance to repay him.
Feeling Winnie sag against him, Rags relaxed. Her lack of opposition lulled him into a sense of false security, so her next act came as a complete surprise. Twisting her head, she managed to put her mouth into position and sank her teeth around the base of his thumb. At the same moment she hacked back at his shin with her foot, a trick learned in childhood scuffles, further weakening his hold. With a jerk she tore free from his grasp and started to race down the hill at an angle to take her behind the other two men but towards Mark’s party.
‘Look out, Mark!’ she screamed, shocked to see how close he had come. ‘They’re waiting for you!’
‘You lousy bitch!’ Rags howled, shaking his hand then charging after her. ‘Just let me lay hands on you.’
The last part of his speech was all but drowned in the crack of shots and a scream of a man in pain. Snarling in fury, he plunged after the girl and ignored what happened to his companions.
Mark and the Kid had been treated as honored guests by the Kaddo. In addition to admiring his strength, they respected what they thought to be Mark’s tolerance in merely throwing dust into the young buck’s face instead of driving the bullet into him. After a good meal they had talked long on the subject of making peace and had arranged for word to reach the Governor. At dawn Mark and the Kid had collected Wycliffe ready to return to Austin. The Kaddo had even given Wycliffe’s mare to the Texans so that he would not slow them down.
Clear of the canyon, the Kid had changed back into his normal clothing. While they allowed Wycliffe to ride with his hands free, he made no trouble. Watched over by two men highly skilled in the use of weapons, any attempt to escape would end in failure. As he rode along Wycliffe had wondered where Billy might be. Knowing his nephew, heading for the safety of Austin had seemed the most likely place.
The Kid never relaxed when on the trail and kept constantly scouring the rolling wooded country through which they passed, eyes taking in every detail. In his growing years he had excelled at the game of Nanip’ka, Guess Over The Hill, played to teach Comanche youngsters how to locate hidden enemies. That early training served him well. He had seen the partially concealed Rags and read significance in the man’s withdrawal. While he doubted if either of his companions saw the watcher, the Kid decided to take precautions.
‘Hold my lance, will you, Mark?’ he said.
‘Sure. What’s up?’
‘Nothing.’
Which did not fool Mark for he had noticed that the Kid bent and slid out his rifle after handing over the lance. Wycliffe had heard the conversation and accepted it at face value. If he found the other two rode up closer to him, he thought little of it. Nor would looking back have told him anything, for the Kid held the Winchester hanging down out of sight on the far side of the horse.
Having ridden many dangerous trails with the Kid, Mark knew the signs. A slight jerk of the head directed Mark’s attention towards the slope down which the two men made what they imagined to be an unobserved advance. Mark had recognized Billy Wycliffe and tensed in his saddle. However he made no attempt to draw a weapon; to do so would warn the men that they had been discovered and might scare them off.
Up on the slope Billy felt worried and uneasy when he saw that his victims moved at an angle which would carry them past his hiding place at a distance of some thirty yards or more instead of coming straight towards him. Augie had halted in a position about forty yards farther along the slope, kneeling behind a rock and lining his rifle. Sure the approaching men suspected nothing, Billy had cradled the butt of his Winchester against his shoulder and had aimed past his uncle at the broad chest of the blond giant.
Suddenly Winnie had screamed out her warning. Finger on the trigger of his rifle, Billy stiffened at the sound. Then panic hit him. Already he knew how fast Mark could move and did not want to tangle with him in a gunfight. So he had aimed and begun to squeeze the trigger. Farther along the slope Augie had lined his rifle at the Kid, but twisted around with an angry growl on hearing the girl.
When the Kid heard Winnie, he knew the game was going to burst wide open at the seams. Jerking his left foot from the stirrup, he booted Wycliffe’s bay hard in the ribs while starting to flip himself from the saddle. Taken by
surprise, the mare leapt forward and carried her rider between Mark and Billy. Just an instant too late Billy saw the danger. Already the rifle’s trigger had depressed far enough to free the hammer. The primer spat its flicker of flame into the bullet’s powder charge, turning the black grains into a cloud of gas that hurled the bullet along the barrel. Lead meant for Mark ripped into Churn Wycliffe’s body and tumbled him out of his saddle.
Landing cat-footed alongside his horse, the Kid darted forward. He threw up his rifle and fired in one fast move. Turning back to his work, Augie saw flame lick from the Kid’s Winchester. Then something hot struck and seared across Augie’s skull. His hat spun away and he staggered into the open before collapsing and lying perfectly still.
Mark also flung himself from his saddle but the lance he held prevented him from collecting the rifle from its boot. On landing he prepared to toss the primitive weapon away in favor of one of Colonel Colt’s improved life-savers. Then he saw Billy turn without making further attempts at fighting.
Cold rage welled up inside Mark, the deadly anger his great strength caused him to control most times. There fled the murderer of Sailor Sam; a coward without the guts to face an armed man. Gripping the lance between his two big hands, Mark hurled himself up the slope after Billy. The Kid also started running, levering another bullet home as he made for where Augie lay. There would be time enough to cut across and help Mark, should that prove necessary, after making sure the man could not take a further part in the affair.
Winnie fled down the slope with the speed of a cougar-spooked pronghorn. Behind her, pain from his bitten hand filling him with such rage that he forgot caution, Rags followed. Neither paid any attention to Billy as he went by them in the opposite direction. Nearer came the sound of Rags’ running feet and Winnie stumbled around a large clump of bushes. A big shape loomed up in front of her and she swerved desperately without recognizing Mark for the moment.