by Zack Wyatt
“Aieee-ye-ye-ye!”
Sands’ head jerked to the right. A cry tore from his throat before he located the source of that blood-curdling scream. “Ambush!”
The warning drowned in a chorus of war cries that rent the air. From both sides, mounted Comanches, their faces painted in the reds and blacks of war, drove their ponies down on the patrol. In one glance, Sands knew he had underestimated the raiding party. At least seventy Comanches howled about him.
Reacting rather than thinking, Sands drove his spurs into the gelding’s flanks. An action each ranger did almost simultaneously with his own mount. Fourteen men, as though possessing a single mind, rode southward in a full run.
There was no other course of action. When confronted with a superior force, ranger tactics were simple—ride for cover, any cover, and hold the Comanche off with long rifles. There was no other hope for survival!
Sands heard the sickening thud of an arrow striking solid flesh. Beside him, a man desperately clawed at his back, trying to dislodge the Comanche shaft that jutted there. Then he tumbled from the saddle.
All this Sands saw and comprehended before his mind gave a name to the man at his side—Shorty Green. Sands had shared breakfast with the man that morning. Now ...
There wasn’t time for the dead now. They would be remembered later by survivors who shared a bottle of bourbon and sorrow. If there were any survivors!
Sands’ gaze shot around searching for a rock formation, a thick clump of trees. Anything that could be used for cover. There was none. At least nothing close. A half mile away a rocky rise pushed from the ground. The high ground and the boulders atop the ridge might provide the needed cover. Provided the whole patrol wasn’t picked off one by one by Comanche arrows before reaching it.
Once again digging his spurs into the gelding’s flanks, Sands pushed beside Jack and shouted. “To the right. There’s rocks.”
Hays turned to his friend, his face set in a deadly grimace. Without a word, he pulled the six-shot pistol free from his belt. His thumb cocked the hammer, and he shook his head.
In the next instant, Jack wheeled his mount. Instead of retreating from the band, he faced it. The dark barrel of his Colt leveled against the howling horde, he spurred his horse toward the Comanche.
“Crazy bastard!” Sands roared from chest and throat, as he jerked the cylindered pistol from his own belt.
The black, guided by the light touch of leather against its neck, wheeled. Sands reined the horse to Hays’ side. No more than three heartbeats passed before the remaining rangers turned their mounts and followed their captain. Fourteen men, one insane captain and thirteen who proved they would follow him into the jaws of Hell itself, raised their Colts and charged into certain death.
The sky darkened.
Sands’ eyes lifted but for an instant. A hopeless curse escaped from his lips, “Son of a bitch!”
The first wave of the Comanches’ attack descended from a blue, cloudless sky above—arrows! Like a hail storm they fell. Mere bits of cedar, flint, and turkey feather—but oh so deadly.
Sands heard a man scream—another. He had no time to turn for a death count. The warriors, now thrown low against the necks of their ponies were too close—as were the angry-looking war lances they leveled at the charging rangers.
Pain!
Hot and searing, a brand of fire thrust itself into Sands’, left forearm. A defiant curse tore from his lips, and his fingers tightened around the reins that sought to slip from his grasp. A Comanche arrow shafted from his arm, its flint head buried deep in his flesh.
Teeth clenched, Sands swiped out with the barrel of the Colt. He sucked in deeply as fresh twinges of pain coursed through his arm when the shaft of the arrow snapped in two. Now he was unencumbered with the awkward length of the shaft.
“Make each shot count!” Hays’ voice cried out to his men.
Sands’ eyes lifted to meet the howling party of Comanches bowling down on him. His right thumb cocked the hammer of the six-shot revolving pistol from New Jersey while a silent prayer moved between gritted teeth. He sighted a warrior with red and black circles drawn on his cheeks, who rose from the neck of his painted pony with war axe in hand.
Sands never got the chance to fire.
From the corner of his eye, he saw another brave—this one rode down on him from the left. The wicked flint head of his war lance was homed on the gelding’s lathered chest.
Ignoring the fiery pain of his forearm, Sands jerked the reins to the right. The black gelding responded immediately, wheeling from the deadly lance that would have skewered its breast.
Sands’ right arm swung across his mount’s neck. He sighted the Colt dead center of the screaming warrior’s face. Knee-to-knee they met. Sands’ finger squeezed the trigger.
Lightweight, though it might have been, the report of that mere thirty-four caliber pistol resounded like thunder. The warrior’s face was lost in the cloud of smoke that billowed from exploding black powder. His death scream was not.
Not waiting to see if the Comanche tumbled from his pony, Sands returned his attention to the warrior with the circles painted on his cheeks. He found the brave just in time to see Will unleash his Colt point blank into the Comanche’s chest. “Cheek Circles” jerked spasmodically, then fell backwards, rolling head over heels across the haunches of his pony.
Around him, Sands heard the barking thunder of “Texas” Colts. A smile touched his lips, only to be erased by a brave who rode at him, long rifle lifting to take aim.
Before the warrior could bring his weapon into play, Sands cocked the hammer of the Colt, felt the trigger once more drop from the pistol’s body, pointed rather than sighted, and fired.
The shot was wild—but it did its damage. A dark hole gaped in the coppery-red of the warrior’s right shoulder. He cried out in surprise and his rifle fell from his hands as he galloped by the ranger.
Whether that cry was from pain or shock that a pistol that should have been empty was capable of spitting another slug of death, Sands wasn’t certain. Nor did he have time to ponder it.
Once more his Colt swung to the right meeting the charge of yet another axe-swinging brave who rode at him out of the clouds of dust. Sands fired. Again his haste cost him accuracy, even at these close quarters. A ribbon of red opened along the brave’s neck—a mere flesh wound. The brave grinned certain of victory.
His grin was replaced by sheer horror when Sands fired yet again. The Colt opened a purple hole directly between the warrior’s eyes. There was no doubt that this time the horror and shock came from the fact the Comanche was unprepared for a pistol that fired more than one shot.
Then there was only dust. As quickly as it had begun, it was over. He had ridden through the full charge of seventy Comanche warriors and lived! He was alive!
Sands’ head jerked from side to side. He saw Will grinning, smoke still trailing from the barrel of his Colt.
And there was Hays and Wallace ... and Utley and ... at least ten of the patrol still lived.
Sands wheeled the gelding about. On the ground were a dozen braves—the bloody proof of the Colt’s value and Jack Hays’ ability as a leader.
Beyond the settling dust, the diminished war party of painted warriors sat on their ponies, staring in disbelief at the havoc wrecked by such a small band of white men.
“Empty your pistols! Then take ‘em with your rifles!” The cry came from Jack Hays.
Sands responded immediately. He leveled his Colt, took aim and squeezed off his fifth shot. A lance-bearing brave slumped across the neck of his pony, then slid to the ground.
Before Sands could fire the remaining shot in his Colt’s cylinder, five other warriors fell victim to the blazing six-shot revolving pistols that were so deadly in the rangers’ hands.
The remaining shot in the Colt was wasted. The brave Sands sighted on wheeled his mount wildly, just as the ranger squeezed the disappearing trigger.
In the next instant, the whole
party was doing the same. Jerking the heads of their mounts around, they fled!
Sands reached for his rifle, suddenly very much aware of the limitations of that one-shot weapon.
“Son of a bitch!” Unrestrained the curse roared from Sands’ snarled lips as Will grasped the broken arrow shaft and yanked the embedded head free.
A string of curses that would have made a sailor blush followed as the young ranger washed the wound with water from his canteen, then poured a healthy shot of medicinal bourbon into the open wound.
Sands’ curses dwindled to a mutter by the time Will wrapped the arm with a strip of bandage pulled from a saddlebag.
“With all that venom in you, it’s a surprise you lived this long!” Will laughed as he tied off the bandage. “Never heard a man complain so much about a little scratch before!”
“Little scratch! Why you son-of-a-whore, I’ll put a scratch up side your head …”
Sands were cut short by a chorus of rifle fire. A shiver went through him. The last victims of today’s melee fell somewhere beyond the rise to the north. These were not men, but ten Comanche ponies taken during the fighting. As much as it pained any man who appreciated good horse flesh, the Indians’ horses were killed whenever possible. The fact was simple, a Comanche brave on foot posed little danger—on horseback he was a killer.
“Here, I reloaded for you.” Will handed Sands his pistol.
Tucking the weapon into his belt, Sands stood and walked to the gelding that stood tied to a barren oak. He mounted, as did Will. “Best we rejoin the others. It’s a long way back to your party tonight.”
Will smiled and nodded. The youthful enthusiasm that had been there this morning was missing now. The young ranger’s expression was one of relief at still being alive. Something that four of their patrol could not share.
Sands’ fingertips touched the pistol at his waist. He had been wrong about the six-shot revolving pistol, he now realized. Hays had been right. Were it not for Mr. Colt’s pistol and Captain Jack Hays the whole patrol would have been killed today. But then that’s why Jack was a captain and he was just a ranger.
Instead of fifteen massacred men laying in the sand, thirty Comanches had died. Thirty warriors out of a war party of seventy! It was unheard of! Then, too, so was this marvelous weapon that had come to the frontier today.
As Sands rode up the rise to rejoin the rest of the patrol, he remembered the two pistols tucked into his sleeping roll. He wondered if he could find a buyer for the weapons before news of Colt’s revolving pistol got out.
Chapter Ten
Thirty rangers crowded into the Casa de Chavela to raise their voices in unabandoned celebration—a roar that equaled at least sixty ordinary men. The amount of whiskey—the good bourbon had long been replaced by red-eye—and tequila consumed equaled at least ninety.
Sands watched while he sat in a corner isolated from the boisterous mass of rangers who groped for each of Elena’s passing girls. Will’s birthday provided the excuse for the revelry, but there was more, something that loud voices and bawdy jokes could not disguise. Nor could it be drowned in alcohol.
Tonight the rangers shared a rite that had been observed by soldiers and warriors through the ages. They celebrated victory and the life that still coursed through their veins. In doing so, they honored the four who had fallen beneath the Comanche arrows today.
Whether his fellow rangers or the republic recognized the fact, they were soldiers. Soldiers in a long and bloody war that had no end in sight.
Unless. For a moment his thoughts returned to Moor-war-ruh and the two chiefs who had ridden into San Antonio. They had promised to return in twenty days.
Sands sucked at his teeth. That had been more than two and a half months ago. To believe the Comanche wanted peace was a fool’s game. Since the meeting with Colonel Karnes, the Nermernuh raiding parties had continued without the slightest sign of slackening. If Moor-war-ruh ever returned to San Antonio, it would be at the head of a war party.
“It seems your friend Will is about to receive Adela’s birthday present.” Cool feminine fingers rested on the back of Sands’ neck, playing with the shaggy brown hair resting there.
Sands looked up into Elena Chavela’s smiling face. Her raven black eyes motioned Sands’ gaze across the room.
There Will and the young singer, eyes longingly locked on one another, quietly walked arm-in-arm from the cantina’s main room toward Adela’s room in the back.
“I’m glad I did not wager with you that first night Will came into my cantina,” Elena said with a shrug. “He is a shy boy when it comes to women. For two months Adela has been trying to get him to her room.”
“He won’t be a boy after tonight.” Sands chuckled. “I think Adela will find it’ll be a damn sight harder task to keep him out of her room than it was getting him in it.”
Elena smiled, her fingers continued their playful taunting. “Speaking of rooms. I will be going to mine shortly. Manuel has already drawn a hot bath for me.”
With another smile and a light squeeze of his neck, she moved on to another table. Sands had no doubt that the waiting bath was an invitation for him to discreetly join her when the opportunity arose.
Lifting his glass, he took a bite from a wedge of lemon, licked the salt on the back of his hand, and slugged down a healthy portion of his glass of tequila. He watched Elena, like some regal princess, make a round of the cantina, laughing and welcoming the rangers. The circuit completed, she smiled over her shoulder at Sands before disappearing down the arched corridor that led to her chambers.
Sands downed the remainder of the tequila and stood. A man couldn’t ask for more than to have a woman like Elena waiting when he returned from patrol. Nor could he ask for more comfort than he found in Elena’s feather bed.
Which is, why Sands couldn’t understand what made him walk from the cantina and ride toward Barrett’s Boarding House.
“You’re wounded!” Marion’s emerald green eyes held genuine concern when she greeted him at the door.
Before Sands could explain, she led him into the parlor, with Jamie and Netty Barrett following at her heels, and demanded that he sit quietly while she cleaned and redressed the wound.
While his mother gently labored, Jamie craned over her shoulder to get an unobstructed view of the wound and plied Sands with a thousand and one questions about the day’s melee. The boy listened attentively, reveling in the grisly details of the battle with relish. It was a good sign. In spite of everything the youngster had suffered at the hands of the Comanches, he bore no scars—or at least the ones he had were healing.
“It’s past your bedtime, young man,” Marion said when she completed rebandaging the wound. Marion looked at Netty. “Will you see that he bathes and gets to bed?”
The older woman nodded and tugged a balking and loudly protesting Jamie from the parlor. Marion looked back at Sands with brow knitted and concern still in her gem-green eyes.
Sands shook his head. “It’s over now. Other than some soreness, I’m no worse for the wear.”
Marion’s lips parted. They trembled, but no sound passed them. Then she bit at her lower lip, and her eyes rolled to the waxed hardwood floor. Her head, its red strands neatly tucked into a loose bun, moved slowly from side to side.
Sands could only guess at what weaved through her mind. Her own encounter with the Comanche, the murder of her infant daughter and husband were all still too close. Sands tried to find the words to reassure her. Nothing seemed appropriate. Words had always come hard to him, especially with women.
“I was hoping we could take a walk down by the river,” Sands said, aware of the awkward sound of his own voice. “The night’s warm and there’s a sliver of a moon in the sky.”
The smile on Marion’s lips barely uplifted the corners of her mouth when her eyes rolled up, but she nodded.
Grabbing his hat from the sofa, Sands stood and offered Marion his arm. She accepted it after she scurried to her room to
retrieve a shawl and tell Netty of their walk.
“I got a raised eyebrow from Netty, but no motherly warning about protecting my honor,” Marion said as they walked out the house’s rear door and carefully picked their way through Netty’s garden. “She’s like my mother in a lot of ways ... some of her attitudes. An unmarried woman shouldn’t be out after sunset with a man unless she’s accompanied by an escort.”
Marion laughed as they reached the bank of the San Antonio River and began walking southward along a narrow, foot-worn path. “But she says you’re a good man ... a few rough edges ... but trustworthy and honorable.”
“Rough edges?” Sands said in mock dismay. “I kick the mud from my boots and take off my hat when I enter a house.”
“You also smoke, chew, and drink. All deadly sins to Netty. Then, too, there are rumors of the hearts broken by a handsome, young ranger named Joshua Sands.” Marion paused beside a budding willow.
Sands said nothing. He wasn’t certain what she meant by the “broken hearts” comment, what she delved for from him, but no man in his right mind would ever touch a remark like that.
He looked out over the San Antonio river. It ran like a black band of velvet lazily cutting through the land. While less than a hundred feet wide, small by comparison to the great rivers of the East like the Mississippi, and the Ohio, in a land where water was often as precious as rare metals, it held a beauty all its own. Tonight, the waning moon that hung overhead lit the ripples of its surface like a myriad of twinkling diamonds.
“We’re only a short walk from the house and it seems like we could be miles from town,” Marion whispered in an almost reverent voice.
She was right. Here they were beyond the lights of the town. Beyond the town itself. The night held a stillness Sands had only found when he was ranging.
“Mind if we just sit and look at the river rather than walking further?” Marion asked, lowering herself beside the willow when Sands nodded.