When All Hell Broke Loose

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  The frontiersman sprang to the back of the wagon, his rifle held ready in his hands. “Get inside the wagon,” he snapped at Katarina, von Stauffenberg, and Gerda. “You’ll be safer there in case of trouble.”

  The vehicle’s thick side boards would stop arrows and most rifle balls, he knew. But maybe it wouldn’t come to that. There was no telling what might have spooked Helmuth.

  Coburn breathed a little sigh of relief when, from the corner of his eye, he saw Baron Walter von Stauffenberg helping Countess Katarina climb into the wagon. The baron, always a gentleman, even where servants were concerned, assisted Gerda, too, before scrambling up and into the vehicle himself. Coburn heard von Stauffenberg telling the women to lie down on the wagon bed, below the level of the side boards.

  The servant’s panic-stricken yells had roused the whole camp. Coburn’s men and the dragoons scrambled to their feet and readied their weapons. When Coburn glanced over his shoulder, he was glad to see in the firelight that they were spreading out so they could defend the whole camp from attack.

  Lieutenant Barton was a little out of breath, either from hurrying or from fear, as he came up to Coburn. “What is it? What’s going on?”

  “The baron’s servant went off into the trees yonder,” Coburn said. “Something’s got him spooked.”

  “You let him go by himself?” Barton demanded.

  Coburn regretted that, all right. But he hadn’t thought that Helmuth would stray very far from the wagons. Coburn had figured the manservant would stop in the brush only a few yards away, instead of venturing all the way into the forest.

  The moon hadn’t risen, but enough starlight splashed down on the meadow for Coburn’s keen eye to spot Helmuth as the man dashed out of the trees and ran toward the camp.

  His arms were pumping so hard and his knees came up so high that he almost looked comical as he ran. His strident shouts didn’t sound the least bit funny, though, as he cried, “Help! Help! Something’s after me! I . . . I think it’s a bear!”

  Barton looked over at Coburn and asked, “Could it really be a bear?”

  “Sure it could,” the frontiersman replied. “There’s plenty of the critters in these mountains. We’d better hope for Helmuth’s sake that it’s not a grizzly.” He lifted his rifle to his shoulder and used his thumb to cock the flintlock’s hammer.

  If a dark shape came lumbering out of the woods after Helmuth, Coburn was ready to shoot it. Bears could move surprisingly fast, no matter how big and ungainly they appeared to be.

  But then orange flame spurted from the shadows under the trees, and a heavy boom bounced back from the wooded slopes around them. Helmuth cried out and pitched forward.

  And Coburn knew things were a lot worse than they had appeared a moment earlier.

  The bear had never been born that could use a rifle—and that was what had just blasted poor Helmuth right off his feet.

  Chapter 8

  More muzzle flashes winked from the trees, looking like bright orange fireflies.

  They didn’t sound like fireflies, though. The ragged wave of gun-thunder that followed the muzzle flashes rolled through the valley.

  “Return fire!” Lieutenant Barton cried. His voice had a shrill, hysterical edge to it as he issued the command. “Return fire!”

  Reese Coburn was already doing just that. He lined his sights on the spot where he had just seen a tongue of flame lick out from a rifle barrel and squeezed the trigger. The rifle boomed and kicked against his shoulder.

  In the darkness, he couldn’t see whether he’d hit anything. The ambushers had all the advantage, hidden as they were in the shadows while cooking fires still lit up the camp.

  “Somebody put those fires out!” Coburn shouted over his shoulder as he began reloading. “Get ’em out now!”

  The baron thrust the canvas flap aside and rolled over the top of the driver’s seat. He tumbled all the way to the floorboards but recovered quickly and dropped to the ground, where he snatched up an empty bucket and ran toward the creek.

  He had told Countess Katarina that he wasn’t a fighter and intimated that he lacked courage—but nobody could tell that as he raced through the camp while bullets hummed through the air or thudded into the vehicles.

  Coburn would have liked to watch von Stauffenberg and make sure the game little fella was all right, but he couldn’t take that much attention off the fight. He aimed at the muzzle flashes and triggered another round. Water splashed and sizzled behind him. Shadows wrapped around him as the campfire was extinguished.

  As he reloaded, Coburn said, “That you back there, Baron?”

  “Ja, Herr Coburn,” von Stauffenberg answered.

  “Good job. Now get back in the wagon.”

  “I will help put out the other fires—”

  Coburn was lifting the rifle to his shoulder again when he heard the soggy, unmistakable thud of a lead ball hitting flesh. He lowered the gun and turned around quickly to see that von Stauffenberg had dropped the bucket and was sinking to his knees as he clutched at his left arm.

  “I am hit,” the baron said in a voice thin with pain.

  “Damn it,” Coburn muttered. “Gerda, give me a hand with the baron!”

  Instead of Gerda, it was Countess Katarina who pushed through the canvas and leaped from the wagon to the ground. She caught herself on a hand and knee and cried, “Walter!”

  “Blast it, ma’am, get back in the wagon!”

  “Walter is my friend! I must help him.”

  It wouldn’t help von Stauffenberg for her to get her head blown off, thought Coburn, but standing around arguing about it wasn’t a good idea, either. He thrust the rifle into Katarina’s hands and said, “I’ll get him!”, then lunged toward the baron.

  Coburn bent over, stuck his hands under von Stauffenberg’s arms, and hauled the man around, then started dragging him toward the wagon.

  He hadn’t reached it when Gerda screamed inside the vehicle. Coburn jerked his head around and saw a man in buckskins standing at the back of the wagon, aiming a pistol through the opening. He was about to shoot Gerda.

  Before the stranger could pull the trigger, a rifle boomed somewhere close to Coburn’s right. The would-be murderer grunted and took a couple of steps back as his arm sagged and the pistol pointed at the ground. He clapped his other hand to his chest. Dark worms of blood crawled between his fingers as the life-giving fluid leaked from the hole where he’d been shot.

  He dropped the pistol and collapsed into a limp heap on the ground.

  Coburn looked over and saw Countess Katarina still holding the rifle he had given her. Smoke curled from its barrel. She had just shot the man. Maybe luck, maybe unexpected skill, but either way she had dropped the varmint just in time to save Gerda’s life.

  Coburn pulled Walter von Stauffenberg under the wagon where the wheels would offer a little protection. Conscious but moaning in pain, blood from the wound soaked the sleeve of von Stauffenberg’s coat. The bullet might have broken his arm; Coburn didn’t have time to check on that.

  Katarina crawled under the vehicle and handed the rifle back to Coburn. “I’ll take care of him,” she said. “You can use this better than I can.”

  “I don’t know about that,” he said. “That was some pretty good shootin’ you just did.”

  The air was full of a near-continuous roar of gunfire. From the way it surrounded the camp, Coburn realized that they were under attack from all sides. Stone Bear must have rounded up more warriors, because he hadn’t had that many with him during the parley that afternoon.

  There was no time to ponder this unexpected treachery by the Blackfeet. As he had told Countess von Arnim, it was almost impossible to predict what an Indian would do.

  Stone Bear had been clever, too, not showing any guns during the initial encounter. The constant roar of shots testified that he had plenty of them with which to arm his braves.

  Coburn finished reloading the rifle and knelt beside one of the wagon wheels. He look
ed around for another target. Shrill whoops punctuated the gunfire. Most of the campfires had been put out, as he had ordered, but a couple of small ones still burned, casting shifting shadows. Men darted here and there. Coburn wasn’t sure who to shoot at. He didn’t want to kill one of the Prussians or a soldier from Lieutenant Barton’s detail.

  Coburn spotted Barton himself stumbling toward him. The lieutenant had a pistol in his hand but didn’t appear to be interested in using it. Blood ran down the side of his face from a cut or a bullet graze on his head.

  “Lieutenant!” Coburn shouted. “Over here!”

  They could make a stand at the baron’s wagon, he thought.

  Barton didn’t seem to hear him, though. Coburn called to him again. Barton turned his terrified face toward the frontiersman.

  At that moment, one of the buckskin-clad shapes loomed up behind the lieutenant. Coburn yelled a warning, but Barton didn’t react in time. The man behind him crashed a rifle butt against his head and drove him to the ground.

  Coburn snapped his rifle to his shoulder and fired. The man who had just struck down Barton jerked his head backward as Coburn’s shot drilled him. He toppled to the side.

  Coburn ran to Barton, who was moaning and moving around a little. At least he was alive. Coburn wouldn’t have been surprised if the vicious blow had crushed the young officer’s skull.

  He reached down with his free hand, clamped it around Barton’s arm, and heaved him up. “Come on, Lieutenant! We’ll fort up in Baron von Stauffenberg’s wagon!”

  That was just going to delay the inevitable, Coburn thought grimly. Killers in buckskin were swarming through the camp, cutting down the dragoons and Coburn’s men. Even if the survivors rallied around von Stauffenberg’s wagon, the raiders would overrun them no matter how much resistance they put up.

  Even though he knew that, Coburn wasn’t the sort of man to go down without a fight. He shoved the half-conscious Barton toward the wagon, but somehow he managed to stay on his feet and keep his legs moving.

  From the corner of his eye, Coburn caught sight of one of the killers aiming a rifle at him. Coburn’s own rifle was empty; he hadn’t had a chance to reload since shooting the man who’d tried to stove in Barton’s skull. All he could do was try to dodge the shot—

  Then, steel flashed in the shifting light and a tall, lean form appeared next to the rifleman. Graf Peter von Eichhorn thrust a sword into the man’s side, sliding the blade between his ribs and into the heart. The killer’s back arched, and even though he jerked the rifle’s trigger, the barrel was pointed up and the ball whined off harmlessly into the night. Von Eichhorn ripped the sword free and slashed the dying man across the face with it, driving him to the ground.

  “Von Eichhorn!” shouted Coburn. “Over here!”

  The nobleman whirled around and swung the sword again, slashing the throat of an invader who had come up behind him. Then von Eichhorn bounded across the camp to join Coburn. He grabbed Barton’s other arm, and the two of them dragged the lieutenant, practically carrying him between them.

  Coburn’s shouts must have carried to some of the other defenders. As he and von Eichhorn hauled Barton toward the wagon, he saw several of the dragoons and three of his men gathered there, firing at the attackers. Countess von Arnim was under the wagon with Katarina and von Stauffenberg, and Gerda had joined them, too. A couple of the other aristocrats were crowded under there, along with their servants.

  But the situation was hopeless. Coburn wondered if it would do any good to surrender, then immediately discarded the idea. Giving up just meant dying without a fight. The Blackfeet would either kill the men out of hand or take them back to their village and torture them to death. The women would become slaves and would be doomed to short, miserable lives, even though they’d probably survive for the moment.

  No, it was better to fight—

  “Look out!” von Eichhorn called.

  Two groups of attackers charged them, one from each side. They dropped Barton and turned to fight back to back. Coburn used his empty rifle as a club, slashing and flailing as the figures clustered around him. He heard von Eichhorn grunting as the nobleman hacked and thrust with his sword. Coburn didn’t like von Eichhorn, but the man had sand, no doubt about that.

  Something smashed against Coburn’s head, and his knees buckled. He caught himself by leaning on the rifle. The weapon’s stock was shattered from using it to brain several of the attackers. Bracing himself, Coburn dropped the rifle and yanked his knife from its sheath. He swung it back and forth, relishing the hot splash of blood on his face as he opened a man’s throat.

  He felt a fiery pain in his side. One of the attackers had gotten him with a blade. He swayed but stayed upright. Another devastating impact on his head sent him to his knees. A kick crashed into his jaw, driving him over backward.

  As he fell, his head turned toward the wagon. He caught a glimpse of the buckskin-clad killers pulling the women from under the vehicle. He saw Countess Katarina struggling in the grip of a captor. She had gotten hold of a knife somewhere and struck wildly with it. Blood flew in the air.

  A man backhanded her brutally, knocking her off her feet. Coburn tried to get up, but more kicks slammed into him.

  Why didn’t they just go ahead and kill him?

  As he plummeted down into darkness, just before oblivion claimed him, the most horrifying thought of all screamed through Reese Coburn’s brain.

  They were trying to take me alive.

  Chapter 9

  The numbness that enveloped Countess Katarina von Falkenhayn, body and soul, was a welcome relief.

  She no longer felt the aches from the beatings she had endured, although the bruises stood out plainly on her face and body.

  A dull resignation filled her heart and brain, instead of the sickening terror that had held her in its grip for so long.

  What could her captors do to her that was worse than what they’d already done? Kill her?

  Katarina would have laughed and welcomed death from anyone who wanted to put her out of her misery.

  At the same time, a stubborn spark of defiance still burned deep within her, like a single ember glowing in a pile of ashes. In all likelihood, that spark would wink out soon, but for now she kept it alive.

  It was late in the day after the attack on the party of nobles and their escort. While she was fighting them, someone had struck Katarina in the head and knocked her unconscious.

  When she had come to, she was draped over the burly shoulder of a man wearing a buckskin shirt.

  She must have done something to give away the fact that she was awake, because the man stopped, dumped her on the ground, and kicked her in the side.

  “Get up,” he told her, speaking English but in guttural tones. “If you can walk, there is no need for me to carry you.”

  Katarina rolled onto her side, wrapping her arms around the pain where he had kicked her.

  “Get up,” the man ordered again. “Unless you wish more punishment.”

  Katarina didn’t want that. Panting with the effort, she got her hands on the ground and pushed herself into a sitting position, then climbed to her knees. She stood up, staggering a few steps before she caught her balance and steadied herself.

  The man grabbed her arm, put his face close to hers. In the almost pitch blackness, she couldn’t make out his face, but the stench of his breath made her gag as he said, “If you try to run, I will break your leg. Try a second time, I’ll break your other leg and leave you for the wild animals.”

  This was . . . not right, a tiny voice whispered in the back of Katarina’s brain. Something didn’t make sense, but in her stunned state, she couldn’t figure out what it was.

  The man gave her a shove and sent her stumbling ahead.

  The night was dark. Katarina tripped constantly but managed not to fall, knowing she would get another kick if she went down.

  After a while, the sky began to lighten with the approach of dawn. Enough so that she
could see where she was going, anyway. She looked around and realized that she wasn’t the only prisoner. Gerda was in front of her, also being shoved along by one of the hulking, faceless brutes, and trailing behind her, also prisoners, were Marion von Arnim and her maid Lotte and Countess Joscelyn von Tellman and her maid Ingeborg. All of them looked disheveled, brutalized, and terrified.

  Katarina understood that, since she felt the same way.

  She saw male captives, as well, but the men weren’t walking. The raiders had felled saplings and trimmed the branches off them, then tied the men’s wrists and ankles to the trunks, so they hung below the saplings like sides of beef as their captors carried them, a man in front and a man at the back of each tree trunk.

  Katarina felt a surge of relief when she recognized Walter von Stauffenberg and Reese Coburn. Walter had been her friend since childhood, and she felt a great deal of confidence in Herr Coburn, even though he was unconscious and helpless at the moment. If there was a way to get them out of this horrible predicament, Coburn would come up with it.

  Walter appeared to be unconscious, too, although in his stupor, he moaned from time to time. The wound in his arm had bled a great deal and soaked his sleeve. He needed medical attention, or surely he would die.

  Peter von Eichhorn had been taken prisoner, also, along with Lieutenant Barton and a couple of his dragoons, making the number of prisoners an even dozen.

  Were they the only survivors? Katarina had a feeling they must be. Everyone else had been slaughtered back at the camp.

  Before the sun rose, the raiders stopped. The man who had been dragging Katarina along raised his voice and said, “The light is getting too strong. Bind the prisoners’ hands behind their backs and blindfold them.”

  Katarina groaned. If she was blindfolded, she wouldn’t be able to see where she was going and she would be in danger of tripping and falling again. With her hands tied, she wouldn’t even be able to catch herself.

  “Don’t do that,” she said to her captor, who seemed to be the leader of these ruthless men. “Please.”