Open Range Fury

by George Arthur

  Yet in a forgotten land, where nothing came easily, the presence of a ready-made habitation could not long be ignored, and gradually, after a few years, some of Sonora’s dirt-poor peons claimed the place for themselves. The once strong walls had crumbled in places, but enough remained to provide shelter and a semblance of protection. The small church, once a place of quiet worship, had succumbed to more practical purposes. As the coolest building, it was now used as a storeroom, and its parishioners were more likely to be wandering chickens. Water, the most precious of all resources, was readily available from a nearby arroyo. With a good supply of labour, the irrigation ditches were resurrected.

  Of course the return of a little civilization to San Marcos was inevitably discovered. And so, inexorably, the earlier cycle began to repeat itself, because the capacity for resistance of the mission’s new occupants was little better than that of their predecessors. Up until now that had just involved the theft of livestock, but as before all would soon change.

  Pepita knew none of this, because her father had taken the foolish decision not to spoil her short childhood with such alarming stories. Headstrong and tomboyish, she just desired the freedom to roam beyond the immediate confines of the settlement’s buildings. And, petulantly stamping her small, tanned foot in the dirt, she abruptly determined that the next day she would do exactly that!

  Set-tainte stared at the three shamefaced survivors with a mixture of anger and disbelief. Disgracefully, two were completely unharmed, whereas at least the third was liberally coated with his own blood. Discounting some of the obviously embellished descriptions, the chief pieced together the fact that their lone opponent was lean and tanned, almost like a Comanche, but far taller. And he carried the pistols that fired many times. Just like the hated Tejano Rangers.

  Since it was quite out of the question to send yet more warriors after this cursed individual, he could only hope that they would come across him on one of their future forays. As it was, they needed to get the surviving captives and all their plunder back up to the temporary holding camp southwest of the Rio Bravo. Only then could he lead his warriors out on further raids. As it happened, the war chief had a particularly tempting village in mind that his warriors had so far only toyed with. The time had come to really exact some tribute!

  ‘May you all burn in hell, you heathen bastards!’ screamed out one of the captive white women through swollen lips, all innocence and tolerance now long since dissipated. Such was her ruined condition that she couldn’t recognize the incongruity of her desperate protest. The momentary defiance was reduced to a whimper by her new master’s rawhide whip, with yet another livid welt appearing on her much abused flesh.

  Set-tainte had no idea what she had just said, and nor did he care. She would need all her apparent spirit just to survive the next few days. Raising an arm, he signalled for the now bloated war party to move out. Two heavily laden wagons, containing food and various items of clothing and furniture that had appealed to their whimsical tastes, accompanied them. As the great caravan moved off, all that remained of the Children of God’s great odyssey were the charred fittings of burnt-out wagons and the bodies of the slain, now food for the carrion birds that had inevitably gathered. As the noise of the departing procession diminished, these loathsome creatures began tearing at the corpse nearest to them, which also happened to be the largest by far.

  Chet Butler’s features were no longer recognizably human, but that counted for nothing to the black vultures that tore at his flesh. He and the wagon train’s many other victims would keep the birds occupied for a long time, unless they were driven off by other, larger predators. And yet they were not the only meal in the offing!

  It was the sudden weight on his stomach that finally woke him. That and the stabbing pain in his side. As Bannock’s eyelids snapped open, he beheld a pair of expressionless eyes directly facing him. A short, viciously hooked beak was poised to tear at the bloodstained clothing that had initially attracted the vile thing.

  ‘Get away from me, you bastard!’ he barked out, as he reached for his knife.

  Unsurprisingly he didn’t need to use it, as the vulture preferred food that was already dead. It was its misfortune to have picked on the only participant of the fight still breathing. Alarmed, the bird rapidly flapped out of sight – but the injured man knew full well that it could only be a matter of time before others of its ilk, and far more dangerous four-legged scavengers appeared.

  Cautiously, Bannock scrutinized his surroundings. It was now late afternoon, and amazingly he appeared to be all alone. But he couldn’t be certain he would remain like that. It all depended on how badly the Comanches wanted his scalp. So he needed to cover some distance before nightfall. Sadly, all the ponies belonging to his victims had wandered off. He would have to walk . . . if he was able.

  Tentatively he examined his wound. The bleeding appeared to have ceased, mainly due to the fact that the arrow was still lodged in it. Gritting his teeth, he gave the shaft an exploratory tug. The pain was excruciating, the benefit non-existent. His only reward was to see fresh blood coating the shaft.

  ‘God’s bones, that won’t answer!’ he exclaimed.

  It was grimly apparent that he couldn’t both extract the arrow and expect to travel. The former gruelling procedure would have to wait. Sighing, he took the next best course. Gripping the greasy shaft with both hands, he abruptly snapped it in half. The resulting agony nearly caused him to pass out again. Beads of sweat welled up on his forehead, as he allowed the severed end to fall from his trembling fingers.

  Minutes passed before he again opened his eyes. This was no good. He needed to be on his way. With a supreme effort, Bannock rolled first on to his right side, and then on to all fours. Putting off the ultimate effort for a few moments longer, he crawled over to where the musket-owning Comanche lay. Greedily the white man seized the large flask of black powder from around his neck. Whether it was of Du Pont quality was questionable, but it would undoubtedly come in handy. As an afterthought, he also decided to take the musket, and in addition a buffalo-hide pouch containing lead balls. It would add to his firepower, and he could also now have a long gun on either side, to act as walking supports.

  Next, after painfully getting to his feet, he recovered his own firearms. Fighting the strong desire to be on the move, he undertook the laborious task of reloading them. Since they were all in effect muzzleloaders, the process involved both time and discomfort. Only then did he finally depart. After some thought he had determined to head east, on the assumption that such a route would likely keep him away from the Comanche war party.

  Bannock knew full well that his continued survival depended on two things. Somehow he had to obtain another mount, and his wound would, at some point, require concerted attention if he was to avoid greenrod setting in. As he trudged away from the broken bodies of his enemies, the lone white man was under no illusions as to the odds stacked against him. All he had on his side was the ability to endure . . . and a great deal of grit!

  As he glanced back at the slow-moving column, the possible presence of hostile Indians was the last thing on Coronel Vallejo’s mind. His force of two hundred and fifty regulars was the closest thing that Mexico had to an ‘Army of the North’, but his men hadn’t trudged all this way just to punish some mangy Comanche raiders.

  That was probably a good thing, because in truth the infantry, although able to defend themselves well enough against attack, would have stood no chance of pursuing and tackling horse Indians.

  The coronel had been personally charged by His Excellency Presidente Jose Herrera to proceed immediately to Northern California, where he was to assist Governor Pio Pico in repelling the unwelcome advances of certain Americanos from the east. It was no secret that the United States of America coveted the rich and juicy province of California, but it was not to be theirs . . . not yet, anyway!

  For long moments, Vallejo was lost in thought, as he contemplated the joyous prospect of hurling
the damn gringos back across the Sierras, and then returning home to great acclaim. He had little interest in Mexico’s far-flung empire, and dearly missed the comforts of the capital, but he had been assigned to this loathsome task by the highest in the land, and so had no choice other than to comply. Besides, a successful outcome would surely guarantee his advancement to the glorious rank of general.

  Hearing hoofbeats, he came to his senses in time to see the approach of Capitan Ugalde. From the expression on that individual’s handsome features, the dark-haired young officer obviously had something more on his mind than just absent pleasures. There was something unsettlingly capable about the capitan that uncomfortably reminded Vallejo of his own professional shortcomings. Whenever real soldiering was called for, he became acutely aware that his advancement so far had had a lot to do with family influence rather than real ability.

  Reining in next to his commander, Ugalde proffered a perfunctory salute, and immediately came to the point. ‘By my reckoning, we have now passed out of Chihuahua and into Sonora, mi coronel.’

  ‘What of it?’ that man responded sharply. It had not been his intention to be brusque, but the relentless heat in this accursed province was causing his head to ache abominably. It really was a sad fact that he was singularly ill used to the rigours of campaigning.

  The capitan favoured him with a cautious smile. ‘Only that we have made good time today, and the men are almost exhausted,’ he pointedly replied. ‘Perhaps we could make camp earlier tonight.’

  Vallejo grunted non-committedly. ‘You’re a strange one, Ugalde. You must be the only officer that I have served with to be concerned about the wellbeing of his men. I heard that Santa Anna once compared the lives of his soldados to those of so many chickens, and in all probability that attitude will be the same throughout the whole of Mexico.’

  The capitan sighed. ‘Perhaps that’s why the general is now in exile, señor. All I know is that we may have to depend on those chickens some day soon, and I’d rather have them shooting at our enemies than our backs.’

  That tickled his superior. ‘Hah! Put like that, you may just have a point. Very well. You may select a suitable campsite.’ Mopping the sweat from his forehead, he added, ‘And I don’t mind telling you, capitan, that after putting me through this ordeal, any accursed Yankees that we run across are going to suffer gravely. Whether they are in California or not!’

  One particular Yankee was already suffering quite badly enough. Although night had finally fallen, Bannock still doggedly stumbled along, a long gun gripped tightly in each hand, like walking sticks to steady his progress over the uneven ground. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind an insistent voice was telling him to lie down, but he knew that if he succumbed he might never get up again. And it was cooler now that the burning sun had gone down. And he desperately wanted to put more distance between the last contact point with the Comanches. And. . .

  For the umpteenth time pain seared through his left side, and he was unable to contain a loud groan. Bannock was dismally aware that blood was seeping steadily from it. If he weren’t careful, it would be that relatively mediocre injury that killed him!

  The butt of his Hawken struck a rock, and almost immediately he heard a terrifyingly distinctive rattling sound, a short distance off to his left. Knowing full well what that portended, he twisted sharply away. His intention was to make a wide detour around the dangerous reptile, but his ill-used body simply refused to comply. His left foot caught on another rock, and this time he crashed to the hard, unyielding ground. Winded and befuddled, he lay like a stranded whale. Hard-learned frontier instincts screamed at him to get up, but it was not to be. His eyes began to lose focus, and his limbs just wouldn’t answer. The last word that he uttered before blackness overwhelmed him was, ‘Chet!’

  Pepita giggled with childish delight. She had eluded her father and was beyond the confines of San Marcos’s adobe walls. Lacking a mother, she tended to have less supervision than the other children, although on this occasion not even her friends knew where she was. The fact that she carried no food or water never even registered in her mind seething with excitement. Extending before the eager ten-year-old were limitless opportunities for adventure, not least because on this side of the former mission station the terrain was exceptionally inhospitable. There was no cultivation and no livestock. Just scrub desert and rocks. Bounding eagerly forwards, the little girl made first for a great Saguaro cactus that seemed particularly appealing to her. She had heard that it contained a delightfully juicy liquid.

  As her deeply tanned legs skipped lightly over the gritty sand, her favourite cotton dress flowed around her body. It was really too small for her growing frame, but nothing on earth would make her forsake it. Taking a great deal of time and trouble, her mother had dyed it red using the juice from crushed berries. She was the only child in the settlement to possess such a colourful item of clothing. The fact that she could be spotted miles away wasn’t something that would trouble her young mind.

  It was only when she got really close to the cactus that it abruptly lost all its charms. Long, vicious-looking spines that seemed to be almost eager to hurt her, protruded from it. The disappointment was fleeting however, because Pepita then noticed a great Barrel cactus that appeared less well defended. As she turned eagerly towards it, two things happened that someone of her tender years could never have foreseen.

  From off to her right came a rattling sound that she knew only too well. Snakes were no respecter of walls, and had even bitten unwary people in the settlement. This particular one reared up into view, fastening its emotionless eyes on to her, and causing the little girl to freeze with fear. And what occurred next was, in its own way, even more terrifying. With her peripheral vision, she witnessed a huge, bloodstained and bearded apparition emerge from behind a rock. In its right hand was a gun that suddenly belched out smoke and flame. Reacting instinctively, Pepita unleashed a high-pitched scream that continued long after the mangled rattlesnake had collapsed to the ground.

  There was a rush of bodies from the settlement. Knowing full well the dangers that existed, the men were fearful but determined. Most carried knives or staves. Only one possessed a firearm, and that was a flintlock of very dubious quality. What they could actually have achieved against serious danger was anybody’s guess, and thankfully they weren’t to be tested. Pepita’s cries made her easy to locate, and the scene before them told the whole story. The dead rattlesnake elicited both surprise and relief, but the sight of its killer, lying under a dissipating cloud of smoke, stopped them in their tracks.

  ‘Papa!’ wailed Pepita, as she rushed into his arms.

  For a long moment, the young Mexican enveloped her in a great hug, before abruptly releasing her. ‘Did it bite you, little one?’ he demanded, his eyes anxiously scrutinizing her arms and legs.

  ‘No. It didn’t get the chance,’ she replied, keen to return to the comforting embrace. All thoughts of adventure had left her. Her only concern now was to somehow avoid the inevitable scolding, and thankfully there was a good chance. ‘That man saved me!’ she eagerly announced.

  With the little girl obviously safe, the villagers, some ten in number, transferred their full attention to the prone stranger. Cautiously, they advanced towards him. Their eyes took in his various weapons, but what really caught their interest was the blood-soaked wound in his left side.

  ‘Bandido?’ one of the men muttered nervously.

  It was Pepita’s father who discovered the truth. Kneeling down, he carefully moved the clothing until the remaining section of arrow shaft was visible.

  Another villager inhaled rapidly and stepped back. Making the sign of the cross, that man announced, ‘Apache, or maybe Seri.’

  At that instant, Bannock’s eyelids snapped open and he barked out one word, ‘Comanche!’

  That brought a collective chill to the group. ‘Madre de Dios!’ another exclaimed. ‘Has he brought them to us?’

  ‘If he had, they w
ould be here now,’ Pepita’s father opined sharply. ‘As it is, he saved my daughter. So the least I can do is tend his wound and feed him. Help me carry him inside.’

  None of the men moved. Instead they merely glanced uncertainly at each other. ‘He’s a gringo,’ the fellow who had crossed himself remarked. ‘Which means he is nothing to us.’

  Pepita’s father was scathing. ‘So we leave him here to die, and then rob his body? Is that his reward for shooting the snake?’ Angrily he glanced from one to the other. ‘You make me sick. Well, I’ll carry him in alone then. Just watch.’

  His words had an effect. Communal embarrassment set in, and finally they lent a hand. As he again drifted into unconsciousness, Bannock was vaguely aware of being lifted from the ground and carried away. By the time that he entered the grounds of San Marcos he was totally oblivious to his new surroundings.

  Chapter Five

  Bannock opened his eyes slowly. The room was dark and peaceful, and apparently free of menace. He lay on a low cot, and amazingly his body felt relaxed and unfettered by pain. Tentatively he touched his left side. The severed arrow shaft, and hopefully the head also, were gone. All that remained was some form of bandage, tightly wrapped around his stomach.

  Cautiously, he lifted his head and peered around. Even in such seemingly tranquil circumstances, he did not take anything for granted. Had he woken naturally, or had there been some other reason? There, in the shadows, he could just make out a red object. It suddenly moved, and his heart rate leapt. That in turn touched off a slight spasm in his side, which told him one thing. His wound had been tended to, but hadn’t yet healed.

  The suddenly cornered white man feverishly reached around for a weapon. Any kind of weapon. Then, abruptly, he realized that he didn’t need one. Sighing with relief, he watched as a little girl approached him. Even in the poor light, it was obvious that she wasn’t a Comanche child. Smiling nervously, she moved to his side. Only then did he begin to recall having seen her in the recent past.