The Searcher

by Len Levinson

  He heard a war whoop and saw figures moving among the trees. A hail of arrows flew toward him, and he flattened himself on the ground. The arrows whistled over his head, and then Stone jumped to his feet, put his gun to the head of his horse, and pulled the trigger. The gun fired, and his horse went down. Stone huddled behind the dead horse as arrows slammed into its torso.

  Stone looked at his leg. The arrowhead had gone all the way through, and blood oozed out. Stone broke off the arrowhead, grabbed the arrow by the feathers on its shank, and pulled it out backwards. Blood poured onto his jeans, and the pain made him holler.

  In the distance he heard gunfire and the war cries of Indians; the wagon train was under attack! Stone pulled his rifle out of its boot and jacked the lever. An Indian poked his head around a tree, and Stone fired; the Indian toppled sideways to the ground. A barrage of arrows flew toward Stone, and he ducked behind his horse. The arrows landed with a series of thunks in the carcass.

  Stone’s right leg throbbed badly and he was losing blood. They hadn’t fired rifles at him, which meant all they had were bows and arrows. They outnumbered him, but he had the firepower and would give them a run for their money.

  The woods became silent. Stone wondered if the Indians had left to attack the greater prize, the wagon train. They’d lain their trap and sprung it perfectly.

  He crouched behind his dead horse. He and it had been together for a long time, and he regretted shooting it, but there’d been no other way.

  The pain in his leg was so intense he thought he’d faint. A scream erupted out of the woods before him, and five painted, half-naked Indians rushed toward him, brandishing lances, bows, and arrows. Stone raised his rifle, sighted down the barrel, and opened fire.

  An Indian screamed and fell to the ground. Stone jacked the lever, took aim, and fired again. Another Indian went down. The three remaining Indians rushed toward him, hollering at the top of their lungs, and he fired again. Another brave yelped and fell.

  The final two Indians jumped over the dead horse and thrust their lances at Stone. He shot one in the head, blowing out his brains, then dodged by a fraction of an inch the point of the last Indian’s lance.

  The Indian swung his lance around and smashed Stone in the mouth with the butt. Stone momentarily lost consciousness, dropped his rifle, and fell on his back. When he opened his eyes, he saw the Indian standing over him, pushing the lance down toward his chest. Stone rolled out at the last second and got to his knees. The Indian spread his legs and readied his lance for another try. Stone drew both his six-guns and fired. Two red dots appeared on the Indian’s bare chest, and the Indian was thrown backward by the force of the bullets.

  Stone dived behind his dead horse. The woods were silent, but beyond them he heard the sound of battle. It was Taggart and the others fighting for their lives, and Stone had to get to them.

  He crouched behind the dead horse’s back and reloaded his pistols, then opened his saddlebag and pulled out the box of ammunition for his rifle. The blood was coagulating around his wound, and it still hurt like hell.

  He wondered if more Indians were in the woods. Loading the rifle, he raised his head a few inches above the horse’s back, and ho arrows flew at him. It seemed reasonable that they’d only sent a few Indians to kill him, while most of the war party would assault the wagon train.

  Slowly he got to his feet, aiming the rifle straight ahead, and nothing moved in the foliage before him. Stone knew he’d never reach the wagon train on foot, but the dead Indians must’ve left their horses nearby.

  He stepped over the dead Indians and limped toward the trees, expecting arrows to streak toward him at any moment. In the distance he could hear war whoops and gunfire, and he wondered how many Indians were out there.

  He saw something move among the leaves and branches and dropped to his stomach, aiming his rifle at whatever he’d seen. Probing with his eyes, he saw what appeared to be the brown and chestnut coats of horses in the foliage.

  He advanced cautiously in that direction, holding his rifle ready to fire. A horse snorted, and Stone knew he’d hit the mother lode. He pushed his way through the branches and saw six Indian ponies tethered to the trees. He cut the reins off one of the horses and fashioned a crude sling for his rifle, draping it across his back. Then he untethered the biggest horse, and climbed on top of it. Wheeling the horse around, he headed out of the woods.

  The horse was balky with a new rider on its back. Stone put the spurs to him, and the animal leapt forward. It galloped through the woods, and Stone could see slices of the plain through the foliage. The trees thinned out, and his vision became clearer. He saw the wagon train circled on the grass, Indians riding around it, shrieking and firing arrows. A few wagons were on fire.

  Gunshots peppered the air, and a cloud of gunsmoke hung over the wagon tops. Stone’s horse galloped out of the woods, and Stone was on the open plain, the wind-stream billowing out his shirt. He whacked the reins over the haunches of the horse to urge it to its ultimate effort. A wall of Indians separated Stone from the wagon train, and he’d have to smash through.

  It was like the war, with the same smell of danger, exalting and terrifying. He saw himself in uniform, his yellow sash around his waist, leading old Troop C against Sheridan’s cavalry.

  Instinctively, he reached for his cavalry saber, but it wasn’t there. Looking down, he saw crossed gun belts and blue jeans. He raised his eyes and saw not Yankee soldiers but wild savages who lusted for the white man’s blood.

  One of the Indians spotted Stone and shouted the warning. A group of them detached from the others, wheeled their war ponies, kicking their ponies’ ribs. Yipping and yelling, they charged across the grass toward Stone.

  Stone stuffed the reins in his mouth and drew his guns. The adrenaline kicked in, and he felt the old thrill of battle surge through. He drew back the hammers with his thumbs, aimed them at the Indians, and pulled the triggers. The heavy guns bucked in his hands, and one of the Indians fell off his horse. Arrows flew through the air at Stone, and he thought one of them would get him, but they zipped past, and he kept charging toward the Indians.

  They were almost on top of him now, and he could see feathers in their hair and garish war paint on their faces. They wore buckskin pants, no shirts, and their torsos were covered with war paint. They looked like inhabitants of another world, and they wanted to tear the hair off his head.

  Stone spurred the horse, and wind whistled past his old cavalry hat. He dug his teeth into the reins and fired his guns as fast as he could. One Indian was hit in the face, another in the stomach, and a third in the chest. They sagged to the side and fell off their horses, while Stone continued to trigger the guns. He shot a fourth Indian in the chest, and then the next group of Indians was only ten feet away.

  Stone spurred the horse, and the horse hurled itself forward at the Indian ponies that now swerved to the side. One of the Indians yelled and lunged at Stone with his lance, but Stone batted it to the side with his left arm and fired pointblank at the Indian.

  The Indian screamed, dropped the lance, and fell backward over the rump of his horse. Another Indian raised a hatchet, and Stone shot him between the eyes. The next Indian swung a war club at Stone’s head, but Stone leaned to the side, and the club whistled past harmlessly. Stone fired both guns at the Indian who fell off his galloping pony into the clouds of dust on the ground.

  An Indian let loose an arrow that flew through the sleeve of Stone’s shirt. Another Indian tried to dive on Stone, and Stone shot him in the heart. The Indian fell lifeless against Stone then slithered down to the ground and was trampled by horses’ hooves.

  Stone passed through the Indians who’d attacked him and now had to break through the Indians riding around the wagon train. He jammed one Colt into his holster and loaded the other. Then he switched and loaded the first Colt. Holding one in each hand and aiming them straight ahead, he tapped his spurs against the horse’s flanks.

  Strings o
f foam fell from the horse’s lips. It’d been a wild mustang, but the Indians had captured and trained it to be a war pony. All it knew was charge. Digging its hooves into the sod, it stretched its powerful limbs and sped toward the wagon train.

  The Indians were turned toward the wagon train, aiming arrows at the travelers behind the wagons, and the travelers fired a steady barrage that masked most sounds. Stone saw at least fifty Indians in front of him, and something said he’d never get through, but he had to try.

  He was close enough now so that the Indians could hear his horse’s pounding hooves, and he opened fire. An Indian fell off his horse, then another, then a third. The Indians turned toward him, and he was in their midst, riding hard, firing his guns.

  They were taken by surprise, and he fired his Colts at them as he broke through their ranks. Three more Indians fell off their horses in rapid succession, but a forth Indian shot an arrow into the breast of Stone’s horse.

  The gallant animal fell to the ground, the arrowhead in its heart, and Stone was thrown off the horse. He saw the grass coming up fast, tumbled over a few times, and landed on his stomach. The wagons were straight ahead, and an arrow slammed into the ground a few inches from his left shoulder. He sprang to his feet, dived through the air, and sailed underneath the wagon in front of him, landing beside Miss Bottom, who screamed and pointed her rifle at him.

  He pushed the barrel out of the way, and she saw who he was.

  “Where’s Taggart?”

  She pointed across the circle of wagons to the other side, and Stone saw travelers firing rifles and pistols at the Indians, while arrows flew through the air all around them. One of the travelers nearby lay on his back with an arrow sticking out of his chest. Another, whom Stone recognized as Sam Drake, the gambler, sprawled not far away with an arrow sticking out of his stomach.

  Stone ran across the clearing in the middle of the wagons as arrows slammed into the sod all around him. He found Taggart behind his wagon, firing steadily at Indians who rode past and shot arrows at him and the other travelers in the vicinity.

  Stone stopped beside Taggart, unslung his rifle, and raised it to his shoulder. Taggart glanced at him and nearly jumped out of his skin.

  ‘I thought you was an Injun!” Taggart said.

  Stone sighted down his rifle and drew a bead on an Indian yelling a war whoop atop his pony. Stone pulled the trigger, the rifle fired, and the Indian fell to the side. A second later an arrow smacked into the wagon a few inches from Stone’s nose. Stone ducked down, and Taggart was already low, loading his rifle.

  “What the hell happened to you?” Taggart asked.

  “I was attacked by Indians at the river!”

  “Is there water?”

  “Damned right there is!”

  Taggart cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered to the other travelers: ‘There’s water straight ahead! Fight off the Injuns and you can drink it!”

  A cheer arose among the travelers, then they fired and reloaded their rifles faster and with greater conviction. Stone studied the situation with the practiced eyes of a former cavalry officer. The travelers were well-protected and had superior weapons, but the Indians had superior force. Neither side had a clear-cut advantage and victory could go either way.

  A flaming arrow stuck the wood on Taggart’s wagon, and seconds later tongues of flame licked up toward the canvas.

  “Cover me!” Stone said.

  Stone leapt up onto the seat of the wagon and nearly fell over because his wounded leg didn’t hold him up as well as he’d thought it would. He righted himself and reached for the flaming arrow, yanking it out of the wood and dropping it to the ground. An Indian screamed and a second later landed on top of Stone, raising his hatchet in the air, preparing to bury it in Stone’s head, but Taggart shot the Indian in the ribs, and the Indian slid off Stone’s back.

  Stone kicked the Indian off the wagon and jumped to the ground beside Taggart. There was no time to say thank you, there were too many Indians to kill.

  “Help!”

  Stone saw a group of Indians streaming between the wagons where Stewart and Martha Donahue were with their children. An Indian raised the war club in his hand and brought it down on Stewart Donahue’s head, and Donahue collapsed onto the ground. Stone ran toward them across the open ground, holding his rifle in his hands.

  One of the Indians grabbed Martha Donahue by the hair, and she shrieked like a madwoman. Stone dropped his rifle and pulled out both his Colts, firing from the waist as he charged in.

  The Indian who held Martha Donahue’s hair was shot through the neck. An expression of surprise came over his face, and he fell on top of her. Three other Indians, carrying a lance, a tomahawk, and a war club, shouted war cries and rushed toward Stone.

  He dropped to one knee and picked his shots, firing from left to right. He shot down two of the Indians, and took aim at the third with the pistol in his right hand. The Indian was almost on top of him, swinging the war club in the air, and Stone pulled the trigger.

  Click! The Indian swung his war club at Stone’s head, and Stone fired the pistol in his left hand, but that pistol jammed. Stone grabbed the Indian’s wrist with both his hands, spun around, and threw the Indian over his shoulder. The Indian landed on his back, and in a second bounced back to his feet. Then a shot rang out, and the Indian grimaced. There was a hole in his kidney, and blood spewed out of it. He took two steps toward Stone then fell to his knees, paused a moment, and dropped onto his face.

  Stone looked in the direction of the shot. He saw young Cornelius Donahue, a smoking rifle in his hand. Stone reloaded his pistols as quickly as he could. He could see no more Indians within the defensive perimeter.

  Cornelius Donahue knelt over his mother and tried to rouse her. Stone grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him to his feet. “Fire your rifle at the Indians!”

  Stone pushed Cornelius into a position behind his dead father’s wagon, and the boy jacked the lever, took aim at an Indian on a war pony, and shot him out of the saddle. Stone turned around and ran across the expanse of grass toward Taggart on the other side.

  Stone picked up his rifle in the middle of the clearing and continued his headlong rush toward Taggart. Several wagons were on fire, and bodies lay everywhere. A steady fusillade was maintained by the travelers, and the women and children were out there with the men, all firing rifles, pistols, and even derringers. Stone saw Homer Hodge, one of the dudes from the East atop his wagon, slapping a fire with his hat, when suddenly an arrow appeared in his back. Hodge froze for a moment, silhouetted against the clear blue sky, then fell backward to the ground.

  Taggart was hunched behind his wagon, loading and firing, and beside him was a box of ammunition. “Aim steady and keep firing!” he hollered. “The only way to keep ’em off us is to keep firing!”

  Stone took a position beside Taggart, rested his rifle on the wagon, took aim, and fired at an Indian about to shoot an arrow. The bullet hit the Indian in the shoulder, spinning him around on his pony, and the arrow soared into the air high over the wagon train.

  Stone jacked the lever, took aim at another Indian, led him a bit, and fired. The Indian pitched forward onto the mane of his horse, and blood made a red ribbon down the Indian’s side.

  Stone heard a thunk sound beside him, and Taggart gasped. Stone turned to look at Taggart, and Taggart was dropping to the ground, an arrow sticking out of his chest. Stone let go of his rifle and tried to catch Taggart.

  Taggart dropped to a sitting position, an expression of bewilderment on his face. His hat had fallen off and he looked like a sick old man. Stone kneeled beside him and tried to hold him up. Taggart’s shirt was rapidly becoming drenched with bright red blood.

  “I’m a goner,” Taggart whispered.

  He became dead weight in Stone’s arms, and Stone knew the old wagon master would never see Texas again. Taggart’s eyes were wide open and staring, and his blood soaked into Stone’s clothes. Stone gently laid him on th
e ground.

  A blood-curdling scream rent the air behind Stone. He turned around and saw an Indian with a hatchet in his hand, war paint all over his body, wearing a breechcloth and moccasins. The Indian swung his hatchet at Stone’s head.

  Stone picked up his rifle and raised it to block the blow. The hatchet slammed against the rifle, and Stone felt the great strength of the Indian. The Indian raised his knee to kick Stone in the groin, and Stone pivoted to the side, receiving the blow on his outer thigh. The Indian screamed his battle cry once more, dropped his hatchet, and grabbed Stone’s rifle, trying to pull it out of Stone’s hand.

  Stone was nearly jerked off his feet by the power of the Indian who was shorter than Stone, but nearly as wide. They grappled desperately for possession of the rifle, pushing and pulling, trying to trip each other, and then the Indian spit in Stone’s face, trying to unnerve him.

  Stone didn’t get unnerved. He yanked mightily, and the Indian hooked one foot behind the back of Stone’s wounded leg. Stone lost his balance, but didn’t let the rifle go.

  He fell to the ground, and the Indian dropped on top of him. They rolled around in the dust, fighting for the rifle. Stone realized he couldn’t get the rifle away from the Indian, and the Indian couldn’t take it from him. Stone reached down into his boot and pulled out his knife, but the Indian saw what he’d done and grabbed his wrist as Stone brought the knife up.

  The Indian bucked and twisted, and Stone held on for dear life. The Indian was a wild man, all muscle, sinew, and bone, and Stone had been weakened by loss of blood. His face and the Indian’s were just inches apart as they contended with each other and the Indian spat on him again. Stone got mad and spat on the Indian, and the Indian blinked. Stone knew the man with superior strength would win the fight, and somehow he had to suck up his remaining reserves.

  Stone and the Indian tossed about on the ground, each trying to gain an advantage over the other, and Stone could hear other Indians running wild inside the wagon train. The Indian leaned his head forward and tried to bite Stone’s nose, but Stone turned his rifle loose and pressed his big hand against the Indian’s face, pushing it backward, but the Indian had the rifle all to himself now and tried to clobber Stone over the head with it.