The Fourth Western Novel

by H. H. Knibbs

“Why do you seek my chief?” the Indian asked.

  Duke told him of Sarah’s children, the boy and the girl. The Indian did not move. Finally, when Duke had finished, the Indian spit on the ground.

  “Watch him,” Duke said, and backed off. “If he just so much as moves an eyeball—shoot him and don’t worry about the noise.”

  Sarah leveled the carbine and took Duke’s place. The cowboy slipped out of the tipi and though it was getting light, moved to the brave’s tent He lowered his voice and spoke in gruff, garbled Comanche. “Come out here, old woman!”

  He waited. There was movement inside, finally the flap was pushed back and the old woman stuck out her head. She opened her mouth to scream, but Duke slammed her over the head with his Colt and caught her before she fell. He slung her over his back and hurried back to Sarah and the brave.

  He dropped the old woman on the ground and slapped her face until she began to moan and hold her head. Duke had hit her a little too hard and it took a few minutes and some of his canteen water before she regained her senses. She looked around, saw the bleeding brave and began to scream again. Duke grabbed her and slapped his hand over her mouth. “This is your son, isn’t it?”

  She nodded.

  Duke pulled out the Colt, cocked it and aimed it at her head. He turned to the brave. “Your mother will die if you do not tell me where your chief One Nest hid like a cur!”

  The brave said nothing.

  Duke turned then to Sarah, who watched him without batting an eyelash. He indicated to Sarah to tie the old woman’s mouth and gag her.

  Sarah stepped forward and used her neckerchief for the job.

  Duke now moved back toward the brave. He pulled out the knife again, turned to the woman and pointed to her son. “Your son will die—slowly—if he does not talk, or if you don’t talk for him.”

  Duke drew the point of the knife down the long muscle of the brave’s arm. Blood flooded out. The brave did not move. His mother’s eyes were wide with fear.

  “You want your son to die?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then tell me where your dog of a chief hides!” Duke demanded. “Which is his tipi!”

  The brave stepped forward quickly and slapped his mother in the face. “If you speak, you will die by my hands,” he said.

  Duke had expected this and stepped in quickly, bringing the Colt down on the brave’s neck. The Indian dropped into the bundles of furs without a sound.

  Duke turned back to the old woman. “If you do not tell me where your chief is, I will kill him before your eyes.”

  The old woman began to cry and tried to talk.

  “If you try to warn the others, I will kill him instantly!” Duke said to her and released the gag.

  The old woman looked at her son and then back at Duke. “He sleeps in the white tipi—” she said.

  Duke felt she was telling the truth and nodded to Sarah. She quickly tied the old woman hand and foot and replaced the gag. Duke stripped leather from a bundle of furs and tied up the brave.

  They turned back to the opening and stepped outside. It was getting clear now; the mists were burning off rapidly. They moved silently and quickly down the sides of the other tipi toward the white one they knew was on the other side of the village.

  There was a noise and movement to one side. Sarah whipped around and brought up her carbine. There was a swishing noise and the Indian just visible at the edge of a tipi dropped to the ground. Duke went to the side of the tent and pulled his knife out of the Indian’s neck, wiping it on the man’s leggings. They moved on down the middle of the village. Gradually they began to see the bleached skins of the white tipi.

  They moved toward it more slowly now, with Sarah just a step ahead of the cowboy. Fifty feet away they stopped.

  Someone was coughing inside the tent. Duke indicated for Sarah to move around the tipi while he moved the other way. She nodded and stepped lightly-across the front flap of the tent and stood on the other side. The sun was getting ready to come up over the eastern rims now. She glanced at Duke nervously. He nodded toward the flap and pointed to the ground. He was going to wait outside and guard the front.

  Sarah took a deep breath, lifted the skin flap and stepped into the darkness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Sarah saw One Nest sleeping in the corner. He did not move or open his eyes. She could see clearly now in the rapidly growing light.

  She stepped forward and raised her gun. The Indian opened his eyes, then, seeing her and the gun, his face jerked and his eyes widened.

  Sarah fired just as One Nest moved, rolling over out of the fur and blanket roll he was sleeping on. Sarah fired again. The Indian dodged around the tipi on all fours, howling like an enraged animal. He was up on his toes, bent forward on his hands like an ape, his eyes watching her. Sarah fired again just as the Indian leaped to one side. He yelled and she knew she had hit him.

  She became conscious of screaming outside the tipi—and the booming of Duke’s guns.

  One Nest dodged again, dragging one of his legs. She had hit him, but not mortally. Sarah fired again, and the Indian dropped before her, his right arm suddenly going limp. He grabbed at her legs with his good arm and brought her down.

  Sarah kicked out with her boots and caught the Indian in the face, sending him back across the tipi. He dodged again as she pulled the Colt and fired. He was slammed back against the side of the tipi and she could see blood streaming down his arms. She had hit him twice in the shoulder and once in the leg.

  She stood and raised the Colt. The Indian screamed and tried to dodge away on his good leg.

  Sarah hit him five times in the chest. The Indian jerked back six inches every time a slug ripped into his body.

  Duke backed into the tipi, his Colt hip-high, directing his fire carefully. An arrow sang through the leather of the tipi and disappeared out the other side. Other shafts flew through the opening of the flap.

  Duke dropped down on one knee. “Did you git him, Miss Sarah?”

  “Yes.”

  “You going to take his hair?”

  “I got it,” she said.

  “We better git the hell out of here, then. Make a hole in the back of the tent and go on through. Try to get to their pony—it’s right in back of the tipi.” All the time Duke kept firing, aiming carefully and not seeming to mind the flying shafts that whistled through the leather of the tipi.

  Sarah cut the tipi skin and looked out. Two braves were waiting for her. She brought up the carbine and fell forward, hitting one in the head and wounding the other in the leg. She fired again before the Indian could get a shaft into his bow. He fell over, dead. “All clear!” she called to Duke.

  He backed out of the tipi, using the Sharps now and walked upright, sighting down the barrel of the gun, making every shot count. They worked their way back to the horses.

  The broomtails were broken to gunshot, but several wild shafts had wounded two of the animals and they were screaming and hobbling around in the enclosure, sending the other horses into panic.

  They were inside the pen now, both their guns empty and the Indians closing in. The rain of rifle shots and arrows never stopped.

  “Gimme his hair,” Duke said. Sarah handed over the bloody mop of hair she had taken from One Nest. Duke slapped it on the end of the Sharps and held it up. “Load the Colts, quick, woman!”

  The arrows stopped coming at them. The shots from the Comanche braves dribbled to a stop. Sarah worked frantically, loading their handguns. “Hurry, Miss Sarah, they won’t stand still looking at this Indian hair much longer.”

  The guns were loaded. She pressed one of them back into Duke’s hand and grabbed the hair of One Nest, shoving it inside her shirt.

  She yelled suddenly. An arrow had gone clear through her shoulder. Duke grabbed her by the good arm and jerked her back t
o the horses. “Git up there, Miss Sarah, and hang on or we’re done for!” He lifted her to the back of a horse and swung up behind her. The shots were getting thicker. The Indians were coming in on them fast now. Duke slapped at the little animal’s flank and the beast spurted around in a circle. He reared. Sarah and Duke fell off the pony and Sarah lay still.

  The Indians were on all sides of the pen now, pouring concentrated fire at the two whites. Dust kicked up around the inert body of Sarah. Duke pulled her back deeper into the pens and slapped at the horses to get them out of the way and keep them from trampling Sarah.

  He caught one of the horses and lifted Sarah to its back. He swung on again, leaning low, and grabbed the rope in his free hand, holding Sarah. He wheeled the pony, his Colt up and ready.

  Sarah began to moan. “Wake up!” Duke yelled at her. “Wake up and hang on!”

  Sarah tried to lift her head. Duke slapped her hard in the face. “Wake up—wake up!” he shouted.

  Sarah opened her eyes. She could not keep her head from swimming. She tried to hold her head up, but found it nearly impossible.

  Duke was firing rapidly now—scattering his shots to keep the pressure on the Indians and throw their aim off. He knew there was little time left—and he knew that if Sarah did not come out of her unconsciousness, they would be killed in seconds.

  He fired at a young brave trying to get into the pen, and saw him drop. Then there was an explosion in his ears. Sarah had brought up her Colt and fired.

  “Hang on!” he said.

  He leaped off the broomtail and in one step was on the back of another. “Let’s go!” he shouted, and kicked the pony hard in the flanks. The little animal leaped ahead. A glance over his shoulder as they raced for the side of the pen told him that Sarah was in back of him, the arrow in her shoulder dancing crazily as the pony leaped after him.

  They ducked low as they neared the edge of the pen, firing point-blank into the crowded Indians, many of them naked, most of them without weapons.

  As Sarah and Duke breasted the edge of the pens, half a dozen braves rushed at them with knives and slashed at their legs, missed, and slashed the little ponies.

  The plains ponies faltered, and Duke’s pony went down. Sarah came alongside of him and the cowboy swung up in back of her. They had emptied their guns and there was only one chance—to run. Duke dug his heels into the pony’s flanks and the horse jerked forward, knocking several braves out of the way, and broke into the village street.

  Duke glanced back and saw that the other ponies in the pen were breaking free. The Indians were trying desperately to stop the runaway herd—but the tough little horses had been strung too high. They would go until they were run out, exhausted.

  Sarah and Duke beat their way straight through the village. At the edge of the sand ridge, Duke saw that no one was following them.

  “We going to have to git our own pony, Miss Sarah!” Duke yelled. “This horse won’t last another mile!”

  They rode around the edge of the sand ridge and Duke slung himself to the ground, diving into the thorny brush, not even feeling the thorns as they literally ripped the clothes from his body.

  He grabbed the black and the roan and led them back into the opening, scratching the horses nearly as bad as himself. But they were fresh, and they knew their own master.

  Sarah was down on the ground again, blood flowing out of her wound. Duke stepped forward and without hesitating, broke the head off the shaft and jerked the arrow out of her shoulder.

  Sarah passed out cold.

  Duke could hear horses now. They had managed to get some of the herd, and were coming after them. He picked Sarah up and put her into the saddle. He poured half the canteen of water over her head and slapped her face. “Wake up, Miss Sarah—you’ve got to ride!”

  She opened her eyes. “Ride?”

  Duke leaped into the saddle of the black. He leaned over low and stung the roan viciously with the end of his rope. The animal leaped forward and the thing Duke had bet on, had prayed for, happened. Instinctively Sarah grabbed for the reins and held on.

  They ran north and west, leaving the shelter of the thorn thicket just as half a dozen braves rounded the edge of the sand ridge. But the Indian ponies were no match for the roan or the black.

  In an hour the Indians had given up an immediate chase and capture and dropped back to track the two riders.

  Duke knew they expected him to stop and rest, and because of this he rode on. He drove the roan and the black all day—right through the heat and into the dusk of night. He did not stop until he came to an outcropping of bald rock with a little water.

  He shot a deer and pulled the dead animal up to the water. Then he turned to Sarah. He heated water and boiled the remains of his shirt and wiped out the wound. Then he heated his knife until the metal was cherry-red.

  Sarah woke up just before he was ready to seal the wounds and Duke told her what he had to do.

  “Where’s the Indian’s hair?” she asked.

  “Here.” He handed it to her.

  She took it in her hands, gripping it tightly. She wrapped the fan of black hair around her fingers and gripped it until her knuckles shone white. “All right, Duke,” she said.

  Duke pressed the blade to the wounds, front and back, and then turned away and threw up at the smell of Sarah’s burning flesh.

  Sarah didn’t utter a sound; she didn’t even pass out.

  * * * *

  The Indians never did come after them. They remained in the bald rocks for nine days, eating the deer and watching the southern flats for sign. Sarah was in fever for three days, and Duke had to open the wounds every hour for them to drain, but there was no sign of the pursuing Comanche.

  “It’s going to be ten days tomorrow, Miss Sarah.” Duke said. “You got your Indian and his hair—”

  “Come here, Duke,” Sarah said, sitting up, a smile on her face. “Come here and sit down beside me.”

  Duke sat down.

  “It’s over, Duke. The Comanche years are over.”

  “Yes, Sarah,” Duke said softly. “They’re over.”

  “Do you like children, Duke?” Sarah asked. “I never inquired.”

  ‘Better’n horses,” he said and looked at her.

  “I feel a lot stronger, Duke. Very strong.”

  She circled her good arm around his neck and pulled him down and kissed him. “We’ll worry about a preacher later, Duke.”

  Gibson Duke closed his eyes. The sun came up and warmed them and the sky was blue and the land was quiet and there were no sounds except those of Sarah and Duke dreaming about their children.

  To one side, forgotten, drying, fly-ridden and maggoty, the dark brush of One Nest’s scalp stirred in the light breeze, was lifted up and blown back into the dry flats of the Comanche country.

  TEXAS HELLION, by J.H. Plenn (Part 1)

  The True Story of Ben Thompson

  Copyright 1954 by J.H. Plenn.

  DEDICATION

  To my wife, Virginia, and our son, Jonathan, with love…

  CHAPTER 1

  The bull voice of Sergeant Vance thundered across the double row of canvas cots:

  “Some no-good son of a bitch stole my candles!”

  The fighting words crashed against the wooden walls of the long barracks room. The roar broke like a wave on a sand bar. It drowned out the froth of after-supper small talk.

  Half-undressed Confederate troopers turned toward the raised doorway platform. Sergeant Vance stood there, glaring down. His legs were braced hard against the creaking wood. His feet were spread wide apart, his beefy arms akimbo, fists clenched against hips.

  In the dead silence, Sergeant Vance surveyed the room below him. His neck muscles swelled, pressing on his hunched shoulders. He leaped down the three steps and marched swiftly along the center aisle.


  A hundred eyes watched his progress to the far end. He stopped at a cot strewn with playing cards, chips, silver coins, and a pile of thick, stubby, white candles.

  Private Ben Thompson had been sitting on the edge of the cot. Now the lean, pale youth got up slowly, and stood facing the sergeant. Ben’s slender, delicate right hand curled loosely above his holstered pistol. In a quiet, even voice, he said: “I took those candles. Didn’t steal them. Replace from your own outfit. They got too many. Left us short—”

  Vance broke in, raging. The authority of twenty years as a professional soldier boomed in his voice:

  ‘That’s a lie! Now listen, I’ll do the talking—”

  “Go ahead and make your speech,” Ben interrupted. His lips were pressed together, the corners down, in a thin smile. His eyes narrowed.

  In unchecked fury, Sergeant Vance drove his clenched right hand hard against the open palm of his left.

  “Goddamit,” he said, “this is an army we’re trying to whip together, and by Christ, we’re gonna have discipline.”

  “Look, Vance,” Ben Thompson suggested, almost in a whisper, “maybe you’re just a little sore because you lost last night—”

  “Holy smoking Hell,” Vance roared, “I’ve had enough of you and your lousy, crooked game.” As he spoke, he kicked over the cot. Cards, chips, coins, candles scattered in a clatter on the floor.

  “Hold it, Vance!” Ben ordered sharply. His voice was still low, but firm and hard. He had risen to his full height, stood tense, alert.

  “You’re under arrest, you cheating skunk,” Vance yelled. His right hand darted down toward his pistol. He gripped it and yanked upward with a snap of the wrist.

  Ben Thompson’s right hand whipped down and up again. His revolver flashed four times before Vance could point the barrel up. The first bullet crashed into the sergeant’s pistol arm, just as Vance pressed the trigger. The sergeant’s bullet ranged downward, struck a nearby trooper in the leg, and Vance’s revolver clattered to the floor.

  By that time, the next three bullets from Ben’s pistol had pounded a big hole in the sergeant’s chest, below his right shoulder, tearing skin, ripping muscle, and splintering ribs. The scarlet ooze from the wound spread in a jagged-edged patch on his gray shirt. The sergeant staggered, and fell in a heap on the floor.