by Zack Wyatt
His eyes rolled up to meet the sky. The eastern horizon now lay tinted with a golden rose hue. The grayness gave way to a pale blue.
Hays nudged his shoulder. Sands turned to find the captain pointing to the camp. One of the braves stirred. Groggily, the Comanche pushed from beneath his buffalo robe and stood.
Sands caught his breath, hoping the brave’s mind was still abuzz with last night’s whiskey. Halfway to the creek, the warrior stopped. He pushed his breechclout to one side and urinated on the ground. Hours seemed to pass before he drained his bladder. The brave adjusted the breechclout and started to stretch. His head lifted ... and froze!
A shot exploded beside Sands followed by a howling cry. Sands’ heels dug into his mount’s sides in answer to Hays’ signal shot. The black gelding lunged forward, bearing down on the camp. The screaming yowls of sixteen rangers echoed through the valley.
Two braves came from under their robes at the same instant. A volley of gunfire sounded in a thundering blast.
One of the Comanche jerked rigid, then fell to the ground, face in the dust. The other darted toward the ponies. He covered half the distance to his destination when Nantan stepped from the cedars, raised his rifle and fired. The brave’s momentum carried him a yard further before his legs crumpled under him and he joined his companion dead on the ground.
Beasos slid from the cedars and stepped beside his fellow Apache. Together the two Lipans leaped onto the backs of the nearest mustangs. Their arms waved wildly and they shouted to the ponies. The horses bolted, running upstream along the creek. Their task completed, Nantan and Beasos rode after the Comanche stock to claim their reward.
Sands’ attention shifted back to the wagon. The other braves were fully awake now. Two coppery-red forms darted into the concealing security of the cedar break. The others scrambled for their weapons to unleash a minor storm of arrows on the charging raiders.
Sands edged the chaotic scene aside, focusing instead on his own mission. His steel-blue eyes searched for the single brave Hays had assigned him.
And he found him—or at least Jamie! The boy sat astride one of the team horses.
Then Sands saw the brave. The Comanche struggled to free a wide-eyed bay from its harness. Trained to the harness or not, the team horse offered the brave an avenue of escape for himself and his captive.
Drawing his hunting knife, Sands spurred his mount on, in an attempt to reach the brave before he realized his efforts were in vain and decided to kill the child and save himself.
Another rider reined a roan into Sands’ line of vision. The horse halted beside Jamie. For a dazed moment, Sands’ mind refused to register what happened. When it did, it was too late!
The rider was Willard Brown. It appeared to Sands that the young ranger saw an opportunity to rescue Jamie Hammer and had ridden in to snatch him from the back of the bay.
Willard, however, failed to notice the brave struggling to free the horse from its harness. The Comanche did see the inexperienced youth.
The warrior grabbed the reins of Willard’s roan. The horse reared and Willard Brown tumbled from the saddle to land flat on his back on the rocky ground.
The young man weakly pushed to his elbows, then collapsed to lie motionless, injured or merely dazed, Sands could not be certain, nor was there time to check.
Before Sands could curse the unexpected turn of events, the brave swung atop Willard’s roan and pulled Jamie Hammer into the saddle with him. With a yelping, doglike cry, the Comanche threw himself onto the horse’s neck and rode westward in hell for leather desperation.
Shoving his blade back into its sheath, Sands reined the black gelding after the escaping brave and his captive as they disappeared over a low-crested rise.
The canyon appeared from nowhere. For an hour, Sands had dogged the fleeing brave. Less than a minute before, the Comanche had been in plain sight, riding about a quarter of a mile ahead of the ranger. Then the brave disappeared.
Now Sands understood how the warrior had managed to vanish so abruptly. With a slight tug on the reins, Sands halted his lathered gelding on the edge of the ravine. The ranger easily discerned the moist layer of dirt and sand uncovered by the brave’s descent down the sixty degree slope of the wall.
The ranger estimated it was thirty feet to the dry riverbed that formed the floor of the canyon. His gaze rose to peruse the terrain to each side of his position. The ravine ran for a mile to the north and perhaps a half mile to the south.
No matter how he studied the canyon, he did not like what he saw.
The path of the old river twisted and turned. Here and there he could see places where the canyon branched off to the east and west. To ride below would be insane. The ravine offered too many opportunities for the warrior to conceal himself. An ambush would be too easy.
However, Sands had no choice; he had to follow.
Clucking through his teeth to his mount, he moved down the steep slope. The black gelding balked when the sandy soil gave way beneath the weight of its forehooves. By then it was too late. Horse and rider were committed to the descent.
In a half loping walk and half slide, hind legs tucked to haunches, the horse maneuvered downward. Sand and talus flew into the air around the ranger as he clutched at the saddle horn to maintain his precarious balance while the gelding lurched from side to side. Then with one last bounding leap, the black gelding stood on the canyon floor, nostrils widely aflare and its lathered sides heaving.
Sands leaned forward in the saddle and reassuringly patted the gelding’s neck. His gaze moved over the dried riverbed. As hard as sandstone, the canyon floor betrayed no obvious signs the brave had passed this way. Yet, here and there, the ranger detected fresh breaks in the cracked bed. Those breaks led northward.
Easing his rifle from its scabbard, Sands cocked its hammer with his thumb, then nudged the gelding forward.
The ranger’s eyes narrowed to slits, constantly moving to take in the canyon before him and the walls to each side. If the brave had an ambush in mind, the attack could come from any direction—even the rear—if the Comanche had time to circle behind his pursuer.
A quarter of a mile in, the ravine narrowed and took a sharp bend to the right. Sands halted the gelding and sat, listening.
The close confines of the canyon walls were perfect for an ambush. Once he started around the bend, there would be no room for turning around. He had to proceed straight ahead, even if he rode into a concealed Comanche camp.
He heard and saw the same thing. Nothing. His finger tightened around the rifle’s trigger. Touching the gelding’s flanks with his heels, he entered the bend.
The brave waited for him there.
But not in ambush.
Beyond the narrow bend, the canyon yawned wide again, running straight for a hundred yards. Thirty feet from where Sands exited the bend, the warrior stood in the middle of the ravine. Jamie Hammer stood before him, a hunting knife, blade aglint in the sun, at his small throat.
Behind them, Willard Brown’s roan limped toward a patch of buffalo grass that sprouted near the base of the canyon wall. Sands watched the abandoned mount shy from placing its full weight on its right foreleg.
With a light tug at the reins, Sands drew his gelding to a complete halt. Ranger and Comanche stood motionless, glaring at one another.
The rifle felt hot and heavy in Sands’ hand. Also totally useless. Like it or not, the warrior held the high cards. The brave could draw his blade across the boy’s throat before Sands could swing the rifle’s stock to his shoulder and squeeze a shot.
The Comanche was apparently very aware of that fact. With a tilt of his head, the warrior indicated that Sands was to throw down his rifle.
Swallowing the curse that tried to push its way through gritted teeth, Sands carefully uncocked the hammer and complied by tossing the rifle aside. He then rode forward and halted ten feet from the Comanche and captive when the brave signaled him to stop.
Again cold steel-blue ey
es met equally cold, coal-black Comanche eyes. A hundred possibilities ran through the ranger’s mind and were discarded. Even this close he could never move quickly enough to stop the warrior’s blade.
For the second time, the brave’s head tilted, directing his mounted opponent to abandon the gelding. Again Sands complied.
An uncertain smile moved over the Comanche’s lips. Sands sensed the warrior’s confidence grow as the brave recognized the ranger’s reluctance to bring harm to the child.
The Comanche spoke in his native tongue. The majority of the uttered sounds were alien words lost on the ranger, although Sands understood just enough to feel an ice floe creep up his spine. Playing totally ignorant, he shrugged and shook his head in the hope of buying time.
The ploy was in vain. The brave’s gaze honed in on the brace of pistols tucked in Sands’ belt, then his head jerked to the side. There was no way Sands could continue his act. The Comanche’s gestures were crystal clear.
With two fingers on the handle, Sands drew the pistol on his left side and let it drop to the ground. The brave’s gaze moved to the remaining pistol, and he grunted a command that needed no translation; he wanted that last pistol at Sands’ feet beside its mate.
And that was the thing Sands couldn’t do—not if he wanted to live. Time—he needed time to think, to find an opening. The only way to get that was to delay.
Sucking in a steadying breath and ignoring the beads of sweat prickling across his forehead, Sands used the only delaying ploy left to him. His hand moved again, not to the grip of his pistol, but to the pommel of his hunting knife. He cautiously drew the blade with thumb and forefinger and tossed it toward the warrior.
The Comanche’s face darkened, his smile fading. For an instant, the warrior tensed and pressed the keen edge of his blade against the vulnerable softness of Jamie’s throat. Sands’ pulse raced like a runaway bass drum in anticipation of that flash of steel that would end the boy’s life.
It didn’t come. Instead the brave once more barked his command and jerked his head at Sands’ remaining pistol.
Time had run out; Sands’ weapons lay at his feet, except for the single shot pistol still tucked in his belt. If he intended to save Marion Hammer’s son and himself, that single shot was his only hope.
Again using thumb and forefinger, Sands slowly eased the pistol from his belt. His arm extended toward the warrior, holding the weapon out as though fully intent on following the Comanche’s orders.
In the batting of an eye, Sands’ wrist flicked. The pistol nestled smoothly in his palm. His thumb found the hammer and cocked it, as his forefinger curled about the trigger. He swung the barrel up to sight the only portion of the warrior’s body that was exposed—his face.
Too late!
The Comanche’s reaction was as quick as the ranger’s. The brave ducked, using Jamie Hammer as a shield, his knife still at the boy’s throat. Once again, he called out for Sands to drop the weapon.
Sands’ hand moved from side to side as he searched for a clear shot. There wasn’t one. They were at a stand-off. As long as Jamie stood between him and the brave, he couldn’t fire; if he took a step forward, the warrior would kill the boy.
Time was on the Comanche’s side. Crouched there behind Jamie, the warrior had displayed a cowardly streak, had shamed himself. Sands knew that shame was eating at the brave. Guilt would soon become anger, and anger eventually foolhardy courage. When it did, the hunting knife would flash.
Sands only hope was before that instant, before the brave pulled his blade across the boy’s throat, the brave would make a mistake and give him a clean shot.
The exploding bark of black powder rent the canyon’s stillness.
Sands’ gaze was riveted to the Comanche. His coppery arm jerked outward, hunting knife flying from his twitching fingers. In the next heartbeat, the brave stood, his eyes round and wide and filled with confused disbelief.
Sands’ trigger finger tensed then relaxed. There was no need for his single pistol ball. A dark hole, purple rather than red, neatly opened the brave’s left temple.
For an unsteady moment, the warrior swayed as though his body refused to accept the death that had entered his brain. Then he tumbled forward, collapsing face down in the dirt.
Sands stood motionless, uncertain of what had just occurred or why. One instant he had been searching for a clear shot, in the next, his target lay dead. Weak-kneed and hands atremble, he slowly turned to face the sound of hooves coming from behind him.
Willard Brown rode down the steep slope of the canyon, rifle across his saddle. A grin covered his whole face.
“I didn’t think he’d ever let the boy go and give me a clear shot.” The young man swung down from atop a sorrel mare. “Are you all right, Josh?”
His mind and body felt disjointed and his bladder suddenly ached with bloated pressure, but Sands was all right. Jamie Hammer still lived—as did he! Uncontrollable laughter, a mixture of nervousness and relief, rolled from the ranger’s chest and throat.
“Josh?” Willard stared at his companion with disbelief.
“I’m fine.” Sands shook his head, reached out and squeezed the youth’s shoulder. “How in Hell did you get here?”
“Shorty Green took an arrow in the leg during the attack. When he fell, I grabbed his horse and followed you. If it hadn’t been for me, you wouldn’t have had to ride after the brave,” Willard said. “I saw you enter the canyon and decided to ride the rim.”
“Damned lucky for me that you did ... damned lucky!” Sands glanced around. Jamie Hammer stood twenty feet away staring at them. “Willard, I think it’s time we took this boy back to his mother.”
Sands stopped and opened his arms. The boy looked at him with uncertainty, then bolted forward, running into the ranger’s arms. Sands hugged him close before lifting him atop the sorrel.
“Young man,” Sands patted the child’s knee, “you’ll have the pleasure and honor of riding back with one hell of a man, Willard ... uh ... Will Brown. If it weren’t for this fine ranger, neither one of us would be going home.” Sands turned to Brown and held out a hand. The younger man accepted the handshake. Sands then looked back up at Jamie. “And I for one am glad he decided to find out what ranging was all about.”
The young ranger beamed. When Sands released his hand, he stepped to the mare and mounted behind the boy.
Quickly gathering his scattered weapons, Sands once more swung into the saddle. The ride back would be long, but he did not mind. Did not mind at all.
Chapter Four
“Mommy!” A beaming grin engulfed Jamie Hammer’s face as he glanced at Sands and Will Brown. The boy’s head swung around, and he excitedly pointed at the camp. “Mommy!”
Sands’ perused the camp from the crest of the hogback. Still wearing the loose fitting shirt and breeches the patrol had given her, Marion Hammer moved about the Conestoga wagon below.
“Mommy!” Joy sang in Jamie’s voice when it echoed down into the small valley.
“Jamie! Oh my God, Jamie!” Marion Hammer’s head jerked up to search and find the source of the beckoning greeting. With arms wide, the woman ran toward the rise ... and her son.
“Best take the boy down to his Ma. That woman’s been through hell. Time she had something good happen.” Sands said and watched Will nudge Shorty Green’s mare down the hogback.
A moment later mother and child were reunited amid a flurry of tears, hugs, and weepy kisses of joy and love. Nor was Will forgotten as the men gathered about to slap his back and shake his hand.
Sands smiled, savoring a rare moment of self-satisfaction. A portion of Marion Hammer’s life was returned to her and life still coursed through his body—courtesy of Will Brown. It was a good day to be alive!
With a cluck of the tongue, Sands eased the black forward. The ranger’s gaze traveled over the camp, alighting on two mounds of dirt near the foot of a winter-barren live oak. Wooden crosses rose from the heads of the freshly dug graves.
He didn’t need a closer look to know the names that were burned onto the crosses—Felix and Sara Hammer. Two more graves to lie with the hundreds that already existed across the republic. The wind, rain, and sand would topple the crosses within months; buffalo grass would reclaim what man had briefly disturbed. Only names written in a family Bible—and memories of the living—would give testimony that Felix Hammer and his infant daughter had ever lived.
The legacy of a fool, he turned from the graves and looked back at a mother, who clutched a very much alive son.
Sands shook his head. His judgment was tinted with his own bitterness. More than just memories remained of Felix Hammer. A fool he might have been—fool enough to get himself and his baby daughter killed. But he left a son in this world to carry his bloodline into the future.
An unrooted hollowness suffused Sands. Had that Comanche brave had his way in the ravine today, Sands’ legacy would have been a money pouch with a few gold pieces, a brace of pistols, a rifle, a worn saddle, a horse, and the clothes on his back.
Who was the bigger fool, Felix Hammer or Joshua Sands? He edged the thought away. He had no wish to ponder the question—or find the answer.
“Josh,” Jack Hays’ voice boomed from Sands’ right and a hand slapped atop his knee. “Damned fine job! I was afraid we’d lost the boy when I saw you take after that buck.”
“I’d be meat for the buzzards and ants if it weren’t for Will Brown.” Sands’ head shook, refusing the praise as he dismounted. “You’ve got the makings of one hell of a ranger there.”
Jack glanced at Will in time to see him blush crimson when Marion Hammer delivered a personal “thank you” in the form of a loud kiss to the young man’s cheek.
Chuckling at Will’s obvious embarrassment, Jack pulled off a wide-brimmed hat and ran a hand through his thick black hair. “I know you’d like a chance to rest up and grab a bite to eat ... but the day’s half spent and I’d like to get the Widow Hammer back to San Antonio before night.”