The sounds of the hooves told him there were definitely many horses out there. Comanche, headed for the police encampment; it couldn’t be anything else. He not only heard it, he could feel it in the rocks under his seat. The sounds and vibrations stopped, and he wondered if he had been seen or smelled. The two trips through the underground water had left a distinctive musk on his clothes.
Gannon listened, listened hard to his left, to the south. He heard the tumble of tiny stones, the very slight scratch of rock against rock. Someone was approaching. This spot was just beyond a bend, would have been a blind spot for an approaching party; it could be a scout, or perhaps they had encountered Roving Wolf and he had warned them about Gannon. Either way, someone was about to come upon him.
His heart went from repose to action, his limbs tensed, and his breath became painfully rapid as he contemplated his courses of action—of which there was only one, really. If the Comanche saw him, he had to kill the man and make a break for the end of the valley in case the others gave chase. If the Comanche walked by, he could afford to wait and take him from behind—club him, take him to camp, and leave the braves without a report from their scout. The only information they would have is that someone apprehended him.
The dull light of sunup shined on the opposite wall of the valley, a zigzag shape that came through the opening in the mesa. The light brightened very, very slowly. It briefly took Gannon back to a much better time and place, when he would turn on a lantern before spending the night with his girl in the barn back in Florida. He would adjust the knob slowly, slowly, allowing just enough light to see but not to draw the attention of his mother doing her ledgers at the kitchen table when the house was quiet—
A shape moved in from the south. Black and thick, it reminded Gannon of the observation balloons he saw moving across dark, dawn skies during the War. It was the big chest of a big man, a Comanche, whose proportionately big fists held weapons.
Gannon held his breath, remained as still as possible, and watched as the giant of a man moved past the mouth of the opening. The white man listened for others, heard nothing but the receding footsteps of the Indian. Presumably, Keel would have anticipated this and there would be a point man to handle it.
The world was silent, save for its morning wildlife overhead. Gannon leaned forward slightly so he could hear beyond the slight projection of rock to his right. He waited several minutes, at least, until the scrape of moccasins on rock came back toward him. This was a bastard of a moment, tough enough to handle when he was clearheaded. But he could not let the Indian return with his report.
Gannon pointed the gun at the stone lip that ended about a foot and a half from where he sat. During the War, he had shot men without announcing himself, without giving them a chance to surrender. This didn’t feel the same; he wasn’t fighting an invader, he was the invader. But it was war just the same. Not quite sure what he would do, Gannon waited until the shape appeared, a little brighter now, before he decided.
“Comanche!” he said in a loud whisper.
The Indian turned toward him, knife raised waist-high, pointing directly at his head. Without hesitation, Gannon fired into the big target in front of him, the man’s chest.
The shot kicked the man back on a geyser of blood, and Gannon immediately grabbed the sharp limestone with his left hand to pull himself up. Wheezing with pain, he thrust himself forward, running past the Indian, who was trying to rise, his heels dug in, his hands clawing at things unseen.
Bent to one side but running as best he could, Gannon made for the light, for the encampment that was becoming brighter with every second, toward the man galloping toward him.
* * *
Buffalo Eyes heard the report and waited for another that never came. He was surprised to hear just one shot crack from within the valley. The war chief had expected that the enemy would station a man there; but he was surprised that anyone could have seen Strong Elk in those shadows and then killed him with a single bullet. Buffalo Eyes had no doubt that the man was dead; there were no sounds of a struggle, just the continued movement from the other end of the valley.
The war chief thrust his rifle straight up; the attack would take place as planned, while the white men were in light and they were still in shadow.
* * *
The figure lurching toward Calvin was a white man who was also a red man, his face, shoulders, and left side wet with blood. It might have been a trap, bait, if not for the fact that the man held a pistol.
Calvin urged the horse forward at a canter. It did not take many steps for him to realize who the bloody man was. Grizzled, thinner, tired-looking, but he was still recognizably Hank Gannon. Calvin stopped and dismounted at the same time, catching Gannon in his left arm as the man moaned and fell. A quick glance told him the blood was not running, did not belong to the new arrival.
The man was very nearly deadweight; it would have been impossible to get him on the horse. Leaving the animal where it was and turning toward the encampment, Calvin tucked his shoulder under the man’s arm. Gannon gasped and the sergeant realized there was some kind of wound there. He held the injured man tighter to minimize the man’s movement as they walked back. The sergeant hated turning his back on the Comanche, since they would use it for target practice. But that couldn’t be helped.
“Sergeant!” Garcia called.
Calvin heard it at the same time the Tejano had: horses in the valley behind him. They would never make it to the main body of men in time. A shot took the horse down, even as Calvin was looking for cover. The nearest rocks were a disconnected array of chest-high boulders about ten yards away. Calvin ran for them, carrying Gannon’s entire weight on his shoulder. The sergeant heaved Gannon to the dirt as a shot whizzed between them, hitting the edge of the boulder and ricocheting; a rock chip struck Calvin in the left cheek as he jumped to the ground beside Gannon.
The police and guardsmen returned fire, a brief drone that Calvin could hear pinging off the valley walls.
“Hold fire!” he shouted.
Garcia repeated the command and there were just sporadic shots from the valley, two more horses falling before the gunfire stopped. Garcia shouted for the animals to be moved back.
There was a break in the shooting, though the scent of gunpowder drifted over the battleground. While the two men were lying there, Calvin moved closer to Gannon.
“How’re you injured?” he asked.
“Ribs,” Gannon said.
“We’ll get that wrapped,” Calvin replied. “The blood?”
“Comanche. Thanks for haulin’ me in, Sarge.”
Calvin lay a hand on his shoulder. “Good to see you, Reb.”
“Lay me over the rock,” Gannon said. “I can still shoot.”
“If we need that, I will,” Calvin said. “I’m not sure they’re coming out.”
Still holding his gun, Calvin had elbow-walked to the other side of the boulder. He looked out across the plain that was marked with sharp shadows cast by the rising sun. The opening of the valley seemed even darker as the dry sands around it brightened.
“Is Constance still in camp?” Gannon asked. He had assumed she made it; he was fearful of the sergeant’s response.
“She’s here,” Calvin told him. “She’s with the doctor. I want to hear how you did that, Reb,” Calvin added. “Got her out.”
“She did most of the shooting,” Gannon admitted. He felt unprecedented relief knowing that she was in good hands and at the rear of the battlefield—for now. “What is the captain’s plan?”
“The captain is with the doctor, too,” Calvin replied. “Indian got in, shot him up pretty bad. Killed the other commander, Nightingale. Whitestraw is gone, too. So the plans are mine and what I’d intended to do was maneuver around the mesa to the south, pin them inside. I don’t think that can be done now. We’d never get across the plain.”
“Good news is, they won’t be able to pick us off from hiding,” Gannon said. “That was probably their pl
an. Thin us, equal the numbers, charge when we were in disarray.”
“Which they could’ve done if we’d mounted up,” Calvin said. “You spoiled their plans. Any idea what they’ll try instead?”
“Not sure. You saw yourself, this is a war party,” Gannon said. “But when I was in their camp, I noticed something else. They are traveling very light.”
“You mean supplies?”
“Yeah,” Gannon said. “They packed arms, not water, not food, not tobacco for peace pipes, no spare ponies—they must’ve planned to take any they needed. Their war chief is Buffalo Eyes. Heard of him?”
“In a dispatch from Blanco Canyon,” Calvin said. “Army gave pursuit, lost him, but found several ponies from his war party. Their bellies were burned, bad. Torches, it looked like. That was how he got the animals back up after they’d dropped from exhaustion.”
“This war chief did not intend to stop or turn back but to burn and kill as far as he was able,” Gannon said. “That’s not going to change.”
“So what does he do next?” Calvin thought aloud.
“The only thing that lets him get past us, even if it costs him some braves,” the sergeant said gravely as he looked back at the encampment. “We better join the others.”
* * *
Buffalo Eyes had lost the surprise he sought. He did not dwell upon that fact, however. Lamentations were for women. It meant only that they would have to leave the valley sooner than he planned, and against greater numbers, to fight the enemy. In the open, Buffalo Eyes still counted his braves as superior to any warriors, Indian or white. He motioned for the braves to remount. He rode to the center of the valley and faced both rows of the war party. He pointed to four braves and motioned for them to leave the ranks. They understood. Then he regarded the others.
“Puuku!” he cried, then turned the upraised rifle in a circle, indicating for the two rows to form one. Then he spun his horse around and led his braves from the valley in a single, thundering column.
* * *
It sounded to Gannon like thunder rolling in from the sea.
He had not required Calvin’s help to retreat. The rocks provided cover, and he was able to bend low without much pain. His appearance drew stares from the men he saw, mostly unfamiliar guardsmen, and until he reached the ambulance wagon and Calvin handed him a towel, Gannon hadn’t realized how much the dead Indian’s blood had covered him. He wiped it away, intending to see Constance and Captain Keel when the Comanche burst from the valley.
Calvin heard them, too. The horses had to be the Comanche target, and before he could give the order to lie them down, make them smaller targets, the first volley erupted from Garcia’s skirmish line.
“Get their horses!” Calvin shouted, repeating the command several times so it could be heard over the constant gunfire.
Some men heard and aimed for the Comanche stallions. A few fell in ugly tumbles, throwing their riders hard. But the Indians surged through them like a spear, and those who survived the initial transit made it impossible for the white men to fire without risking hitting their own people. The veteran police and guardsmen turned their rifles around and used them as clubs, swinging hard at the Comanche who were firing at the horses tethered in the rear of the camp. Almost at once, the Indians in the rear of the line adjusted their tactics, using an upsweep of their tomahawks to meet the swung rifles, then bringing the stone heads down again on the defenders. More and more of the Indians were able to punch through as the white men backed away, tried to fire, but more often than not missed their targets.
Gannon was at the rear of the camp. He still had the gun, and Bosley was outside the ambulance. Gannon put his back against the nearest boulder to keep his torso steady and fired at the Indians who closed in on the makeshift corral. He was too busy shooting and reloading to see if Roving Wolf was among the attackers. It was carnage in the densely packed rear quadrant as horses were killed or injured, others were pulled to the ground, guardsmen returned fire, bullets pinged off rocks, and Indian braves and their mounts died in twisting, bloody falls. Even in the worst battle of the Civil War, Gannon had never experienced chaos like this. He was glad that the ambulance wagon was slightly to the east and of no tactical importance to the Comanche. Wisely or fearfully—or both—Dr. Zachary had all the flaps drawn tight.
With the amount of dust thrown up by the attack, it was impossible to see how many men and horses had fallen in the main area. What alarmed Gannon was not the potential losses but the potential survivors on the Comanche side. As yet, the braves who made it through circled back to attack the horses. Gannon could not hear Calvin’s raw-throated commands, but he noticed more and more police whom he recognized, and guardsmen he did not, falling back to protect the herd. The sergeant had to be concerned, rightly, about what would happen if a substantial number of Comanche broke through and rode on to Austin.
Nearly out of ammunition—he had just loaded the last six bullets—Gannon pushed off the boulder, squinted with the pain that slashed along the middle of his back, and staggered toward the nearest horse. It was already saddled, having been readied to ride out; he pulled himself up, wheeled the horse toward the nearest saddled mount, and grabbed the reins. He drove his steed ahead with his heels, pulling the other behind him; there was an open stretch of plain, without any sheltering boulders, but with the ability to quickly put significant distance between him and the Comanche. The stretch was due east, perpendicular to the valley, and he visually marked the hundred or so yards that would put him out of range of the Indians’ rifles.
Shouting at the horse and whipping its sides with the reins, he raced into the clear morning. He did not fear being shot in the back, since the men were not the target; but he was mentally prepared for having the painted shot from under him and either shattering what was left of his rib cage or having to finish the trip on the second horse, if that was possible. He had not yet considered what he would do when he was safe; Comanche would no doubt pursue.
As he rode, he heard shots close behind him but not the whiz of gunfire flying by or the punch of bullets striking the earth. He chanced a look back and saw Hernando Garcia between himself and the massive dust cloud. The Tejano was also on horseback, not far from the ambulance wagon, but he had stopped to face the enemy and protect Gannon’s retreat. He quietly thanked God that the Tejano was such a fine horseman. He could shoot straighter in the saddle than any man Gannon had ever met.
Free to concentrate on the next step, Gannon had to get the horses to safety. Without them, it would be impossible to pursue the Comanche. He rode on, using distance as his buffer. Out here, there was nothing else. He realized that by doing this he was leaving one less man to protect Constance if the Comanche spitefully turned on her wagon. Seeing that the captain was still alive, the Indians might just do that if any of them made it through the camp. Gannon felt sick in his stomach but—and he could thank Keel and Calvin for this—the mission had to take precedence. And he took consolation from one thought.
If Zachary has a weapon in there, Constance knows how to shoot.
He looked back. His own dust cloud obscured Garcia, though he could see flashes of distant rifle fire in the thick haze. The sounds were muffled, too. Gannon slowed to preserve the horses.
With his own flight quieted, Gannon heard the continuing pop of gunfire . . . and the thump of hooves coming in his direction. Four . . . eight? He turned to face the sound, held his weapon waist-high so as not to have to raise his arm. Either a pair of Comanche were coming after him or—
Garcia burst through the mist at a gallop, trailing another pony. The Tejano was looking down, following Gannon’s trail, headed straight for his position. Gannon looked beyond him, saw only the dusty air—and then a single warrior speared through it on horseback. From the beaded leather satchel around his neck, Gannon knew at once that this was the war chief.
There was another brave behind him. Then another. Gannon suddenly understood Garcia’s plan. Several braves were goi
ng to break through anyway. He was using himself as bait to give Gannon an opportunity to pick them off, knowing that they’d go for the horses before they went for him.
Gannon dismounted to give himself the steadiest shot possible. He got on one knee, a position he’d mastered behind bushes during the War. He aimed at the war chief’s horse. When it was in range, he fired. Gannon was glad he had dismounted; as the war chief fell, so did Garcia’s trailing mount, shot by one of the braves. The pursuing Comanche could not stop fast enough and piled into the two fallen horses, falling over them, the horses whinnying and dropping and trying to get up. Only one of the horses succeeded. Almost at once, the war chief had pulled himself on its back, wheeled, and fired into the head of the horse that had risen from the dirt. Then he rode back to the fight.
Still in the saddle, Garcia spun round. The war chief was lost in the dust, and Gannon fired at the other two Indians as they tried to get to Garcia. They went down among the horses.
The Tejano rode over to Gannon—who was looking back at the camp, trying to understand the sudden flight of the war chief. He could have tried for any of the three surviving horses. Or if he had wanted to get away he could have broken for the north, away from the two police officers.
“Christ,” Gannon said suddenly.
“What is it, amigo?” Garcia asked as he rode up. Despite the battle—or because of it—a smile shone through his dusty face.
Gannon said, “Take the spare horse. I’ve got to get back.”
“What is so urgent?” Garcia asked—though from Gannon’s expression, he understood at once what the target must be. If it were not possible for the Comanche to go all the way to Austin, they would leave the kind of carnage that horrified readers in their newspapers.
Mounting, and leaning forward as a lance of pain ran through him, Gannon tore back across the plain, headed for the ambulance wagon.
War Valley Page 20