‘You know damn well why,’ his friend replied. ‘Because their silver dollars are as good as anybody else’s. That said, I reckon our contract has just come to an abrupt end.’
‘So what’s next?’ the big man enquired.
Bannock shrugged. ‘Since we can’t do nothing for them, all we can do is save ourselves.’
‘And how do you propose we do that? I don’t reckon running’s an option, ’cause those bastards’ll surely have us surrounded by now.’
‘I know. That’s why we’re going to start digging instead.’
Butler gawped in amazement. ‘Dig what? Our own graves?’
‘Huh, that’ll be the day,’ Bannock grunted. ‘No, we’re gonna fort up. You see that small rise over yonder? Well, just in front of it, we’ll dig a trench big enough for the two of us to crouch in, and pile the earth up in front. That way, when the Comanches sweep in to attack the wagon train, they won’t see us . . . hopefully.’
‘What about the horses?’
The other man grimaced. ‘Ah, well, that’s the rub. They will be spotted, so we’ll just have to leave them with the pilgrims.’
Butler was aghast. ‘You’d set us afoot in the desert?’
‘Either that, or get butchered for sure! Which’ll it be?’
Chapter Two
Darkness, such as it was, had fallen long before, almost unnoticed by the sweating men. Sadly, under the circumstances, a near perfect ‘Comanche moon’ bathed the landscape in an eerie glow, which should have unsettled any perceptive individual travelling in Indian country. The dugout was finished, tin plates having doubled as entrenching tools. Now all that remained was for them to check over their weapons.
Glancing over at the wagons, some fifty yards away, Butler shook his head for maybe the tenth time that night. ‘God-damned stupid sons of bitches,’ he muttered scathingly. The trail-worn conveyances had been circled, but apparently with the sole intention of preventing their owners’ animals from wandering off. There were no flaming torches in evidence, and almost unbelievably not one single sentry.
‘I’ve got to admit, it’s almost like they have some kind of death wish,’ Bannock quietly concurred. ‘And what really breaks me up, is what’s likely to happen to that little girl with the red bonnet. Did you see her? She was just the cutest creature, and yet she’s got no say in anything.’
‘Best not to think on it,’ his huge companion replied. ‘It’ll just take your mind off of what needs to be done, and sure as hell won’t change the outcome.’
‘I guess you’ve got the right of it,’ Bannock very reluctantly accepted, as he set to examining his brace of Paterson Colts.
As the frontiersman had earlier stated, the two men were indeed ‘packing’ a lot of iron. In addition to his modern five-shot revolvers, Bannock possessed a handmade .50 calibre muzzle-loading Hawken rifle, which boasted double-set triggers and ‘honest’ sights. A large hunting knife in the ‘Bowie’ style completed his armoury. By contrast, Chet Butler favoured a pair of rather dated, single-shot percussion pistols and, bizarrely, an absolutely immense Nock volleygun. Most men would have considered this antique piece, with its dated flintlock mechanism, to be a dangerous and unwieldy curiosity. With six 20in barrels grouped around a seventh, it unleashed, more or less simultaneously, a volley that could be devastating against close-packed assailants. However, its many drawbacks included a massively heavyweight, bone-crushing recoil, and the time it took to reload the barrels individually. Butler, who had purchased it from an English naval deserter many years earlier, treasured it as an effective, if somewhat temperamental man killer, and wouldn’t hear anything said against it. Certainly only someone of his great size and strength could have controlled such a weapon.
‘Seems like we’re as ready as we’re ever gonna be,’ Bannock remarked in hushed tones. ‘I reckon we’ll take it in turns to get a little shuteye.’
Other than the occasional movement of the enclosed animals, all was silent over by the circled wagons. The surrounding landscape appeared empty, just as on any previous night, but that didn’t fool the two guides. The Comanches were out there for sure, and would undoubtedly make a lethal appearance at a time of their own choosing. Both men had a pretty fair idea of what to expect, but if they were afraid they made a good job of concealing the fact. They knew full well that if fear got the upper hand, then they were as good as dead already.
Recognizing that when the attack came, there would likely be no time for any sentiment, Bannock took his friend’s hand in a firm grip. ‘Just make sure that damned cannon’s nowhere near me, if and when you get to trigger it,’ he instructed with a warm smile.
‘Don’t go troubling yourself,’ Butler retorted softly, as he returned the pressure. ‘To my certain knowledge, I’ve never yet kilt a friend with it.’
‘Well, ain’t that just reassuring?’ Bannock drolly commented. With that, the two men settled down to pass what remained of the calm before the storm. Neither of them was under any illusions as to what lay ahead, but at least they were ‘loaded for bear’, as the frontier parlance went!
The war party was large, amounting to well in excess of one hundred copper-toned warriors, and they could almost taste the glorious victory that would surely be theirs. Normally Comanches were wary of attacking large groups of well armed settlers, but their scouts had been tracking this party for a couple of days, and two factors now emboldened them to strike. Firstly, the travellers appeared to have come from Texas, and the horse Indians of the southern plains hated Tejanos easily as much as they did Mexicans. Secondly, and quite remarkably, other than the two guides, they seemed to be armed solely with wooden sticks. At first that discovery had filled them with alarm. To a people ruled by omens and signs, such behaviour indicated that the white men had no fear of anyone that they might encounter, and thus possessed great power. But then their war chief, Set-tainte, had berated his men as never before. These wagon people were merely simple crop-tenders, not the much-feared rangers who had fought the Comanches so fiercely in West Texas.
And so it was decided. Shortly before dawn, the war party split into two groups. The smallest, numbering only twenty men, was charged with running off all the animals to the safety of a box canyon some short distance away. The rest were to attack the wagons. Designated members of that latter band carried flaming brushwood, with which to burn out the settlers. With practised speed, the savage horde swept towards the remarkably silent circle, their path illuminated by silvery moonlight. Unbelievably there appeared to be no sentries to warn of their approach.
Traditionally, none of the sinewy warriors would even countenance fighting on foot, so they attached rawhide ropes to one of the wagons whilst still mounted, and then urged their ponies to take the strain. As a gap opened up, two things happened. Those tasked with stealing the livestock surged into the inner circle, and the helpless occupants of the wagon awoke to face a living nightmare.
A bewildered young woman peered out through the canvas flaps, and stared in sheer horror at the barely clothed savages before her. The scream beginning to form in the base of her throat turned into a muted death rattle, as a barbed arrow slammed into her body. Emboldened at having drawn first blood, the Comanches unleashed great whoops of joy, and began to drive the settlers’ terrified animals over towards the widening gap. They were confident in the knowledge that even then their comrades were attacking the wagons from outside of the circle.
It was only as the sun-baked canopies above their heads began to ignite, that a sickening realization struck the ‘Children of God’ with razor-sharp clarity. Chet Butler’s graphic description of their likely fate was coming true. As they leapt clear of their burning ‘homes’, howling fiends rode at them from every direction. A Comanche warrior was only truly in his element when mounted. It was as though pony and rider were one, and with their prey out in the open, there could be no stopping the slaughter.
Joshua Wilson watched in dismay as all their assorted animals were driven off i
nto the night – but that was just the prelude. Because then the screaming started, and not just by women and children. As the sect leader clambered down from his wagon, one of the men of his ‘flock’ stumbled past, seemingly out of his mind with pain. Unbelievably, the hair on his head had apparently been completely sliced off, leaving a raw scalp covered in blood. Mounted savages were riding back and forth with complete impunity, expertly weaving around their victims. Razor-sharp lances skewered running men, as though for sport, whilst others were struck down by deftly aimed arrows.
Wide-eyed with shock, Wilson rushed into the midst of the killing ground, his head and arms raised to the heavens. ‘For pity’s sake, stop!’ he implored. ‘There is no need for this.’
The Comanches who witnessed this display regarded him with a mixture of suspicion and amusement. Unsure as to where his entreaties were directed, they understood not a single word that he had uttered, and even if they had it would have made no difference. They had no pity for their enemies, and there was every need to continue the butchery, because brutal warfare was in their blood. And yet, for a moment, they held off from slaughtering the strange white man. Primitive superstition had provided him with a temporary reprieve.
With the full horror backlit by the burning wagons, some of the menfolk desperately fought back with anything that came to hand. Whips, knives and their pathetic wooden staves were all pressed into service – but it was all too little, too late. As more and more settlers succumbed in a welter of blood, the Indians turned their attention to the women and children.
The young girl who had so captivated Bannock, peered out from under the wagon bed. Frantically she searched for any sign of her parents. Then, illuminated by the soaring flames, she spotted her mother being forced to the ground by one of their terrifying attackers. Despite her hysterical screams, the frenzied apparition was tearing at her clothing. The reason for this peculiar behaviour eluded her, and yet instinct told her she had to help. Tightly clutching the red bonnet that was her pride and joy, the little figure raced from cover . . . straight into the path of a fast-moving pony.
With incredible dexterity, the warrior simultaneously manoeuvred his mount aside and swept her off her feet. In the firm grip of a bronzed fiend, all the youngster could do was emulate her mother and scream . . . and scream.
For Joshua Wilson, still miraculously untouched by the bloody carnage, this new development was just too much to endure, even for a sworn pacifist. Unexpectedly overcome by a murderous rage, he charged to the child’s aid. Although a stranger to violence, his large frame nevertheless held great power. Coming up behind the abductor, Wilson seized hold of the Comanche’s waist and dragged him from his pony. Taken by surprise, that man released his captive and snatched a hunting knife from his breechclout.
Seeing the deadly threat, Wilson abruptly changed his grip. Wrapping his left arm around the Indian’s neck, he grabbed the head with his right and heaved with all his might. Although the sound of a bone snapping was inaudible over the noisy chaos, for some reason the lone white man, still incandescent with rage, momentarily attracted a great deal of attention. As all resistance abruptly ceased, he released his victim like so much rubbish, and bawled out his defiance at the startled Indians closest to him.
‘Leave us be, you murdering sons of Satan, or the power of the Lord will surely smite you all!’
Temporarily ignored, the little girl continued the determined dash towards her mother. That poor woman, flat on the ground and with her clothes torn to pieces, was desperately trying to fend off the fierce advances of her captor. As her distraught daughter suddenly appeared before her, the anguished mother caught a brief glimpse through tear-stained eyes and cried out, ‘Run, my sweet baby. Run while you can!’
With almost casual disdain, the lustful Comanche buck turned and delivered a stinging backhand slap that knocked the troublesome child off her feet. Then, as behind him a dozen warriors surrounded Joshua Wilson, he commenced a vicious sexual assault on the woman beneath him.
Even as the sect leader recognized that his time had come, he also realized that the two guides had been right all along, and that there were indeed times when only violence could answer. And so, as the unforgiving figures around him notched their arrows, he turned to the full moon and howled out, ‘Avenge us, Bannock!’ Those were the last words he uttered on God’s earth, because at that moment a flight of barbed shafts pierced his chest, snuffing out his life with graphic finality.
If his plea had been heard, there was no response. The Comanches continued with their accustomed rape and slaughter. The leisurely torture of captives would wait until they were far away, and safe from any possible pursuit. Struggling to hold back her tears, the little girl got to her feet and stared uncomprehendingly at her mother’s terrible ordeal. She had absolutely no idea what to do, but suddenly the decision was made for her. From out of nowhere another mounted warrior surged towards her and quite literally swept her off her feet. Remarkably, she still clutched her treasured possession, the little red bonnet.
Chet Butler stared in abject horror as he observed his companion level his Hawken rifle. ‘Just what the hell are you fixing to do with that?’ he quietly demanded. Strangely, under the changing circumstances, he was still concerned with keeping quiet to avoid detection.
The sharpshooter grimly drew a bead on the diminutive target. ‘There’s only one thing I can do to save that adorable child from a fate worse than death itself.’
‘And where will that leave us?’ Butler asked angrily, as he quickly glanced around their position. The two men were crouching behind the pile of earth that they had excavated, their lair so far undiscovered. In deep shadow, well away from the massacre site, it was entirely possible that they would remain that way.
‘Up shit creek, as usual,’ Bannock retorted. ‘But there really isn’t any option, is there?’
Butler sighed deeply. He was probably the only person still living who had learned a little of his very private friend’s past. Long ago there had been some family member whom he had not been able to save, and the memory of that had haunted him ever since. ‘Knowing you as I do, I guess not,’ the big man finally responded.
‘You wouldn’t have it any other way, anyhu,’ Bannock replied. ‘Fighting’s in your blood.’ Then he held his breath and fired.
As the heavy ball struck, blood splashed over the face of the exultant Comanche and the red bonnet fluttered down to the hard-packed earth. With surprise turning to anger, the warrior discarded his lifeless captive and emitted a tremendous war whoop. Shocked by the single unexpected gunshot, his comrades abruptly ceased their savage activities and went in search of the source. As fleet-footed ponies surged around the wagon circle, it could only be a matter of moments before the two white men were discovered.
‘Now that’s what I call real active,’ Butler muttered laconically, as he hefted his volleygun into position.
‘One of these days that cannon’ll blow up in your face,’ his friend remarked with a sad smile, as he swiftly reloaded the Hawken.
The massive frontiersman matched the expression. ‘Let’s just get past today, huh?’
Then a collective shriek emanated from the war party and the two men knew that their time had come. And yet, strangely, nothing happened immediately. With their night vision affected by the flames, the Comanches milled around in confusion, unsure as to exactly how many enemies awaited them in the makeshift redoubt. Then their leader, Set-tainte, thrust himself to the fore. Under his fierce exhortations, the assembled warriors dug in their heels and charged forwards.
Unlike his first, carefully placed shot, Bannock now had no need for the finer points of marksmanship. With scores of horsemen approaching, he merely aimed low and squeezed hard on the front trigger. There was a satisfying crash, as his shoulder absorbed the heavy recoil. The .50 calibre ball brought a pony tumbling down, which in turn tripped others following behind. Some strange sixth sense told him to hold off using his Colts, and so he grabbed
his powder flask and began to recharge the Hawken.
As the Comanches drew closer, they saw that there were only two ‘white eyes’ opposing them. With no conception of what awaited them, they assumed that it would surely be only a matter of moments before they could return to the delights of rape and pillage.
Chet Butler hugged the stock of his big gun tightly into his right shoulder. He knew from experience that he could cope with the massive recoil . . . just. As the pounding hoofs reached the thirty-yard mark, thereby still ensuring a moderate spread of shot, he gritted his teeth and squeezed the trigger. The powder in the pan ignited first, and then with a tremendous roar and truly spectacular muzzle flash, the Nock delivered a kick like a mule. But that was nothing to the devastation it had created.
Deliberately aimed low, seven heavy balls spread out and tore into the looming animals, bringing them and their riders crashing to the ground. As though struck by a giant mallet, the whole war party momentarily plunged about in chaos before resuming the attack. Taking advantage of the brief respite, Bannock finished reloading and again levelled his long rifle.
Ignoring the terrific ache in his shoulder, Butler dropped the smoking and now thoroughly redundant volleygun, and grabbed his two percussion pistols. As the Comanches finally reached the trench, three more shots ripped into them. This time the hot lead was unleashed at almost point-blank range into human flesh and blood. Screams rent the night air, as mutilated bodies toppled from their ponies. Such was the accumulated death toll that, had the Comanches not been so close, they would probably have broken off the attack. Unlike the white man, they were rarely prepared to tolerate heavy casualties merely to gain victory. As it was, however, momentum and blind rage carried them forwards, so they suddenly swarmed over the two defenders.
Grasping his Hawken by its long barrel, Bannock viciously swung the weapon around, all the while howling like a berserker. Confronted by a solid mass of men and animals, he just couldn’t miss. The Comanches’ numbers were actually counting against them – and yet still they didn’t dismount, because fighting on foot simply wasn’t in their nature. Unable to draw their bows in such a mêlée, instead the warriors lashed out with clubs, and stabbed down with their war lances.
Open Range Fury Page 2