The Searcher

by Len Levinson

  Stone twisted his knife hand loose and jabbed it with all his strength into the Indian’s stomach. The Indian screamed and let go of the rifle. Stone pulled out the knife and stuck it in again, ripping across the Indian’s belly. The Indian screamed and fell to the ground.

  Stone picked up the rifle and got to his feet. Two Indians charged out of the smoke and dust, one armed with a lance, the other carrying a war club. Stone leveled the rifle, fired a shot, and hit the Indian with the lance, then swung the rifle around and smashed the butt into the face of the Indian carrying the war club.

  Another Indian jumped onto Stone’s back with a loud shriek. One of the Indian’s hands grasped the front of Stone’s shirt, and the other held a long-bladed knife that he thrust toward Stone’s throat.

  Stone grabbed the Indian’s wrist with both hands, halting it in midair, while the Indian wrapped his legs around Stone, grasping Stone’s throat with his free hand. Stone brought his elbow back hard into the Indian’s stomach, and the Indian loosened his grip on Stone momentarily. Stone twisted around, back fisted the Indian, and the Indian dropped dazed to the ground. Stone drew his knife and cut the Indian’s throat.

  Stone heard Alice McGhee scream behind him. He turned around, pulled out his guns, and jumped over the body of the dead Indian, running toward a horde of half-naked Indians surrounding the Reverend Joshua McGhee and his family.

  The McGhees were armed with rifles, but the Indians outnumbered them and were about to swarm over them when Stone charged into their midst and opened fire. Bullets flew through the air like angry hornets, and the Indians were cut down by the combined firepower. They lay in a bloody mound around the McGhee family, and the McGhees hastily loaded their weapons for the next assault.

  Stone heard a cry for help from the other side of the wagon train. He saw a group of Indians inside the perimeter attacking the Fenwick family. Stone rushed toward them, and every time he took a step, he had to hop because of his stiffening leg. The atmosphere was filled with dust, smoke, yells, and Stone pulled the triggers of his pistols, firing a barrage at the Indians.

  They shrieked and twisted in pain as the bullets ripped into them. Stone smashed one in the face with the barrel of his Colt and kicked another in the stomach. A third Indian charged Stone, poising his lance for a throw, but Stone aimed his guns and pulled the triggers.

  Click went the pistol in his right hand, and then, a split second later, the pistol in his left hand went click, too. Both had gone empty at the same time, and Stone’s worst nightmare came true. He thought he was going to die. The Indian threw his lance and Stone dived to the side. The lance missed his ear by a half-inch, and Stone landed again on the ground. The Indian took a war club from his belt, raised it, and made an ululating sound with his mouth as he leapt toward Stone, swinging the club down.

  Stone grabbed the Indian’s wrist with his left hand and whacked him in the face with the Colt in his right hand. The barrel of the gun laid the Indian’s scalp open to the bone, and the Indian fell to the ground with a skull fracture.

  Indian battle cries pierced the air to the right of Stone, and he saw two more Indians charging toward him. One carried a lance and the other a tomahawk. Stone holstered his empty pistols, picked up a fallen Indian’s war club, and ran to meet them.

  The Indian on the left pushed his lance toward Stone’s belly, but Stone deflected it with a sideways swipe of his arm, crashing his war club into the Indian’s head, and then on the backswing, struck the other Indian in the face. Both Indians toppled at Stone’s feet, but more Indians screeched like wild animals a short distance away.

  Stone turned in their direction and saw three Indians charging him. He picked up a tomahawk lying on the ground, and now was armed with a war club and a tomahawk. One of the three Indians took one look at Stone, faltered, turned around, and ran in the opposite direction, but the other two Indians kept coming, murderous gleams in their eyes.

  Stone waded into them, wielding his war club and tomahawk. One of the Indians carried a knife and managed to cut open Stone’s arm before Stone buried the tomahawk in his skull. The other Indian swung his war club at Stone’s head, and Stone couldn’t pull his tomahawk loose from the first Indian’s head. He let it go, leaned backward, and the Indian’s war club scraped the end of his nose. Stone swung his war club sideways, but the Indian ducked, and Stone’s war club passed over the Indian’s head.

  Stone and the Indian circled each other, holding their war clubs ready as fighting raged around them. Then Stone and the Indian rushed each other at the same time, swinging their war clubs at each other’s heads. They both reached up, catching each other’s wrists, and now they were locked together tightly, glaring into each other’s bloodshot eyes.

  The Indian grunted and pushed, but Stone held his ground. Then Stone pushed, and the Indian gave ground. Stone had no resistance and went stumbling forward. The Indian stepped out of the way and held out his foot. Stone tripped and fell to the ground.

  The Indian was on him in an instant, raising his war club for the death blow. Suddenly there was the explosion of a rifle, and the Indian’s head shattered. The Indian toppled over onto his side, and Stone was splattered with blood. He sat up and saw Alice McGhee, her dress in tatters and a smoking rifle in her hands.

  Stone didn’t have time to thank her. He jumped to his feet, yanked out his pistols, and loaded them quickly.

  “Watch out!” shouted Alice.

  Stone looked up and saw a crowd of Indians speeding toward him. Two had rifles and one a pistol that they’d taken from a dead traveler. Stone went into a gunfighter’s crouch and opened fire. The Indians returned his fire but were unfamiliar with the weapons, and their bullets flew harmlessly over Stone’s head.

  Stone wasn’t unfamiliar with his weapons, and his fusillade blew down the front rank of the Indians. He continued firing, nearly choking on his own thick gunsmoke, while Alice shot at the Indians from her position slightly behind him and to his right.

  There was so much smoke it was hard to see what was going on, but Stone had a sense that the Indians were dropping to the ground. Then two Indians burst through the smoke. Both carried lances poised ready to throw at Stone’s heart.

  Stone dropped to one knee and pulled the triggers of his pistols, while Alice fired her rifle. The Indians were torn apart by the bullets and toppled to the ground.

  Stone thumbed fresh cartridges into his guns and got to his feet, expecting more Indians to rush him. But no Indians came. They were running away, heading for their horses. Stone was taut as a guitar string, his teeth clenched, holding his pistols ready to fire again. His heart beat like a tom-tom. He ran toward the nearest opening between wagons and saw Indians riding off toward the hills, their elbows and legs flapping up and down.

  Stone was aware of somebody beside him. He turned and saw Alice McGhee, the bodice of her dress torn and half of her left breast showing. Her eyes were glazed with horror.

  “Are you all right?” Stone asked.

  She collapsed at his feet. She had no wounds, and he figured she’d passed out due to the strain. Glancing around, he saw travelers sitting, laying their rifles down.

  “Hold your positions!” Stone shouted to them. “Load your rifles! The Indians might come back!”

  The travelers dragged themselves off the ground and hunted for their extra ammunition. They loaded their rifles and positioned themselves behind the wagons, waiting for the Indians to mount another attack.

  Stone reloaded his rifle and gazed onto the plains. The Indians were gone, but they might come back. He wiped his forehead with the palm of his hand. He was thirsty and hungry, aware of cuts and bruises all over his body, and his leg ached fiercely.

  Stone remembered Taggart, killed by an Indian arrow. A deep sadness came over him as he walked across the clearing to Taggart’s wagon. He saw Taggart lying on the ground next to one of the wheels, the arrow sticking out of his chest. Taggart’s head was covered with blood—the Indians had scalped him.


  Stone kneeled down next to Taggart, picked up his hat, and covered his head. “You said this was going to be your last wagon train, and you were right.”

  Stone got to his feet and knew he was in charge of the wagon train now. He raised his rifle, leaned against the front of the wagon and looked out at the plains. No Indians were in sight.

  Stone looked at the position of the sun in the sky. It was low on the horizon, and soon night would come. Stone rolled himself a cigarette; his nerves were jangled. There’d been moments when he’d thought he was going to die, but he hadn’t died. Yankees had been ordinary human beings, but Indians were alien creatures who attacked out of nowhere, fought like fiends, and disappeared.

  He and the travelers waited for the Indians to attack again, but the Indians didn’t come. The sun sank lower on the horizon and dipped behind the hills. Darkness came to the plains, and the wounded moaned. Stone had heard that Indians usually didn’t attack at night and hoped that was true.

  Footsteps came to him, and he turned around. It was a group of the travelers, led by the Reverend Joshua McGhee. McGhee took off his hat as he looked down at the dark form of Taggart lying on the ground.

  “Guess yer in charge now. We was thinkin’ that we should move on to the river. We’re awful thirsty.”

  “Load your dead and wounded onto the wagons,” Stone said, “and move out when I give the word.”

  The travelers returned to their wagons. Stone lowered the tailgate of Taggart’s wagon and lifted Taggart off the ground, carrying him to the wagon, laying him in back.

  Stone rolled another cigarette. It was dark, and nobody could see him. He bent his head and permitted himself to weep for the brave old man.

  Chapter Fifteen

  In the dark of night, the wagon train moved toward the river. Everyone who could use a rifle held one in case the Indians attacked. The wagons rumbled among the trees, and the travelers couldn’t wait to drink deeply of the cool clear water, but they had to be careful. The fight with the Indians had made a deep impression on them.

  The men set up a defense perimeter, while the women and children drank. Then canteens of water were brought to the men on guard. Meals were prepared, and the moon bathed the scene in a ghostly glow. Stone walked to his old horse lying dead beside the river. He kneeled next to the horse and thought of all the country they’d seen together. The horse had been a good one, loyal and strong. Stone wished he’d treated him better, but it was too late now.

  Alice McGhee approached, carrying a roll of bandages and a pair of scissors. “Want me to look at your leg?”

  Stone lay on the ground and she cut open his pants, exposing the wound.

  “Doesn’t look infected.”

  A canteen was hanging from a protuberance on the wagon. Alice took it and washed the wound, while Stone grit his teeth and felt her cool hands on his skin.

  “Do you think the Indians will come back?”

  “Don’t know.”

  She tied a bandage around his leg, snipped off the end with the scissors, and tied a bow.

  “Finished.”

  “You’d better get some rest. We’ll all have to be up early tomorrow.”

  She hesitated, as if she wanted to talk.

  “Are you all right?”

  Her eyes became watery, and she let out a sob. He placed his hand on her shoulder.

  “You were a good soldier today,” he told her. “Don’t give up now.”

  Half the travelers went to sleep, while the other half stood guard. Stone limped around the defense perimeter, telling travelers where to position themselves, urging them to stay awake. They gazed out onto the plains, hearing the calls of birds and chirpings of crickets, and wondered if Indians were out there someplace, preparing to attack.

  The guard shifts changed, and Stone stayed awake, making sure the new guards understood their duties. Then he returned to Taggart’s wagon and crawled into his blankets. He closed his eyes and fell asleep almost instantly.

  Everyone was up before dawn, holding their rifles and peering onto the plains, waiting anxiously for the Indians to attack. Stone roamed about the wagons, checking the defense, trying to raise everybody’s morale.

  “You beat them yesterday!” he said. “You can beat them again if you maintain a steady volley of fire!”

  The sun rose higher in the sky, and the Indians didn’t come. The settlers grew restless. Some lay on the ground and tried to rest, but Stone ordered them back to their positions. They had to be vigilant if they wanted to stop the Indians.

  Women prepared lunch while the others maintained their positions behind the wagons. The travelers ate with their rifles close at hand. Throughout the rest of the afternoon, they waited for the Indians to attack again.

  In late afternoon, Stone suspected the Indians had gone. The travelers filled their water barrels and dug a big hole in the ground, then carried the stiff bodies of their loved ones to the hole and laid them inside. Stone and Reverend McGhee lowered Taggart in last.

  “I’d like to say a few words for the repose of their souls,” Reverend McGhee said.

  The group of travelers stood around the hole, and the men removed their hats. Some of the travelers continued to stand guard, holding their rifles in their hands.

  “Lord,” said Reverend McGhee, “please accept into Your loving arms the souls of these brave men and women who died fighting the heathen savage. Have mercy on them, bless them, and keep them close to You always. Amen.” He looked at Stone. “Care to say anything Captain?”

  “Let’s hitch up our wagons and get out of here.”

  They filled the mass grave with dirt and placed a wooden cross on top. Then they formed up the wagon train. Cornelius Donahue agreed to drive Taggart’s old wagon, and a few wagons had to be left behind because their owners had been killed.

  They left the extra wagons on the plains for whomever might be able to use them. Stone sat on the spirited horse he’d taken from Hank Owsley and moved his arm forward.

  “Wagons ho!”

  The wagon train moved forward, wheels creaking and carriages rocking from side to side. The sun was an orange and red ball of fire dropping toward the horizon. Some of the wagons were charred from the flaming arrows of the Indians, and the travelers sat inside, their faces grim, and many were bandaged. They’d fought for the land and now would never give it up.

  Guards took their positions on the flanks. Stone galloped forward to take the point, leaving Reverend McGhee behind as second in command.

  Stone slowed down his horse when he was in position, and looked back at the wagons winding their way over the grass in the glow of the setting sun. He scanned the hills and basins, looking for signs of Indians. Maybe they were beaten, back in their teepees licking their wounds, or maybe they were behind the next hill, massed for an attack. He pulled his hat low over his eyes and settled into the saddle, peering ahead. The wagon train stretched behind him over the plains as it rolled onward toward Texas.

  About the Author

  Born in New Bedford, Massachusetts, Len Levinson served on active duty in the U.S. Army from 1954-1957, and graduated from Michigan State University with a BA in Social Science. He relocated to NYC that year and worked as an advertising copywriter and public relations executive before becoming a full-time novelist. Len created and wrote a number of series, including The Apache Wars Saga, The Pecos Kid and The Rat Bastards. He has had over eighty titles published, and PP is delighted to ssue his exceptional WWII series, The Sergeant and super spy – Butler, in digital form. After many years in NYC, Len moved to a small town (pop. 3100) in rural Illinois, where he is now surrounded by corn and soybean fields ... a peaceful, ideal location for a writer.

  ALSO BY LEN LEVINSON

  Featuring Butler

  Writing as Philip Kirk

  The Hydra Conspiracy

  Featuring The Sergeant

  Writing as Gordon Davies

  Death Train

  COMING IN MAY 2014

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nbsp; The Searcher 2: LYNCH LAW

  Piccadilly Publishing

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