Chapter Seven
Luis sat on the cot that Bannock had inhabited for the first few days of his stay in San Marcos. Next to him was Pepita, an arm tightly linked in his. Since her father’s return, bloodied and shaken, she had not moved from his side. The American sat on a chair opposite, his Colt revolvers now conspicuously back in his belt. It was very obvious to him that the Mexican had a great deal on his mind, and that at least some of it involved his guest.
‘Could they have been the same Comanches that attacked you?’ Luis asked.
Bannock nodded. ‘Seems kind of likely. They’ve travelled a mighty long way from Comancheria. Makes sense to get their fill of raiding before they head back, and there’s nothing they like better than doing that in Mexico. Kind of makes you wish those soldier boys were still around, don’t it?’
Luis sighed, and clutched his daughter all the harder. It was obvious that his terrifying brush with the Indians was still etched into his mind. ‘How can we hope to fight them, señor?’
Bannock’s eyes narrowed. ‘Maybe you folks should have thought of that before you settled out here . . . with your children an’ all. The Comanches have had free rein over northern Mexico for decades.’
A certain fire seemed to ignite in the other man’s eyes. ‘Perhaps you don’t know what it is to be poor, señor. We have no money, and no government to help us, so we had to settle on land that no one else wanted.’
‘Except that now, others hanker after what you’ve brought to it,’ Bannock retorted sharply, apparently unmoved by their predicament. He, too, knew what it was to be broke, but it wasn’t his way to comment on such things. His credo had always been, ‘never complain, and never explain’. But then, completely unexpectedly, the little girl with the red bonnet suddenly loomed large in his memory. Raw emotion registered on his tough features, and his eyes grew damp. ‘It’s no different in the US of A, you know. Poor folks, or those running from something, have to move out west to get free land, but then they butt up against the horse Indians, and not all of them make it.’
‘You could help us fight them, Señor Bannock,’ Luis remarked hopefully.
The American grunted. So that was why he had been invited to join the two of them. He shook his head emphatically. ‘Nah, I reckon not. I’ve helped you, an’ you’ve helped me. So let’s call it evens, and forget that you people have probably come out ahead. Sell me a burro, and I’ll be on my way.’
Luis’s disappointment was plain to see, but it was nothing compared to that of Pepita. Releasing her father, she ran crying over to the startled American and began to beat on his chest with her little fists. ‘You saved me. I thought we were friends,’ she yelled bitterly.
Completely taken aback, he did not even try to resist. Uppermost in his mind was one thought. ‘Why does she have to be dressed in red?’
Embarrassed, Luis came over to stop her, but Bannock waved him away. Then, gently taking her wrists, he looked into the little girl’s tear-stained eyes. ‘I’ll make a deal with you,’ he stated softly. ‘If you stop beating on me, I’ll stay another night and think over what your pa has said. What do you say to that?’
Pepita stared at him, her tear-stained eyes wide as saucers. Gradually, with a lot of sniffing and swallowing, she calmed down enough to nod once.
Bannock’s rough-hewn features crinkled into a smile. ‘Well, good for you,’ he replied warmly, before adding softly to her father. ‘Let’s hope it turns out to be quieter than last night, huh?’
Unbeknown to Luis, those words were said in genuine hope, but without any real expectation, because unlike the villagers, Bannock had a pretty fair idea of what was coming!
As the two officers rejoined the slow-moving column, Coronel Vallejo gratefully called a halt. In truth, even though well mounted, he had had enough of the interminable slog for one day. California’s governor would just have to wait that bit longer. He was genuinely glad to have the experienced capitan back, because if anyone had the temerity to attack them, he was not sure just how he would react. Not that he intended to show his relief. Pride had too strong a hold over him.
‘What of the sargento?’ he enquired somewhat coldly. ‘Had he decided to raise goats with the villagers?’
‘Far from it,’ Ugalde replied. ‘In fact I believe it was someone in San Marcos who murdered him.’
The coronel was taken aback. ‘Montoya dead! That is very unfortunate. So I take it that you did find him, then.’
‘What was left of him, sí. Along with two peons killed by Indians. Probably Comanches.’
‘How do you know it was Indians?’ Vallejo asked somewhat naively.
‘Nobody else butchers a man like they do,’ retorted Ugalde, rather more harshly than he had intended. He was observing his superior closely, because he had more to say, but wasn’t quite sure how to proceed. He was aware of the young teniente at his side looking totally nonplussed. Vallejo obviously sensed that there was more to come, because he looked at the capitan expectantly.
‘And those same heathens were watching us all the time,’ Ugalde finally divulged.
‘Did you actually see them?’ Vallejo demanded.
The other man shook his head. ‘I didn’t need to. I could sense them all around us.’
Whilst young Felipe was horrified with his apparent brush with death, their commander wasn’t quite sure how to react to such a statement. Someone of his ilk had little tolerance for so-called ‘sixth sense’.
‘I believe we were allowed to leave, because the Comanches had other plans,’ Ugalde doggedly continued. ‘That can only mean that they intend to attack San Marcos.’
Vallejo studied his subordinate closely. He was becoming increasingly irritated by the lack of substance in the report, and he especially didn’t like where it was leading. ‘And?’
‘They are citizens of Mexico, mi coronel,’ Ugalde stated somewhat officiously. ‘It is our sworn duty to protect them. Therefore I wish to return to San Marcos with the teniente and fifty men.’
It was Vallejo’s turn to be horrified. ‘Absolutely out of the question,’ he retorted. ‘We have been assigned our mission by the president personally. That is the only duty that I recognize, and it surely takes precedence over the uncertain needs of a group of destitute squatters. Besides, by the time you got back there it would be too late. I, too, have heard stories of these Comanches. It is said they are devils on horseback.’
‘Nevertheless, I wish to try, mi coronel. Whatever happens in California, fifty men won’t change the outcome one way or another.’
The two men stared fixedly at each other, neither one prepared to back down. Vallejo possessed the rank, Ugalde the field experience. In a moment of prescience, it suddenly occurred to the young teniente that the fate of San Marcos and all of its inhabitants quite possibly hung on the outcome!
It was the best of all possible nights for a raid. A huge, luminescent moon hung over a cloudless sky, allowing easy progress over the harsh landscape. The small herd of scrawny cattle beckoned, and Set-tainte nodded with satisfaction. The omens appeared to be good, and if all went well, the next action would be a full-scale murder raid on the isolated settlement. The prospect was so pleasurable that he could almost taste it. And of course a good outcome would also surely enhance his status in the tribe.
The animals were clustered in an arroyo within sight of San Marcos’s walls. His intention was to sweep in at speed, slaughter any guards and drive the livestock away. Glancing around at his sparsely glad warriors, the chief bared his teeth with savage glee. Contrary to the inaccurate perceptions of many of the white eyes, these particular Indians were not decked out with feathered headdresses and elaborate war paint. They preferred to travel light and concentrate on what they were best at: warfare in all its glory. This was what they had all been born to, and now yet again it was time.
Lifting the heavy Nock above his head, Set-tainte unleashed a great howl and urged his pony forwards. Screaming like banshees, his men spread out along his
flanks, so they advanced in a wide crescent that enveloped the arroyo. A single bleary-eyed guard, Alfredo by name, stared in stupefied shock at the mass of horsemen charging towards him out of the gloom. Even though he’d heard Luis’s frightening story, he still hadn’t really accepted that he, too, might end up in harm’s way. And yet now, unbelievably, the savages were almost upon him!
The sudden commotion spooked the cattle. With walls on their left and a sizeable stream flowing on their right, they began to flee in exactly the direction intended. The shocking realization that the whole herd would be lost, energized the normally placid Alfredo, and he drew from his belt the only weapon that he possessed. Swinging the razor-sharp machete at the nearest rider, he managed, more by luck than judgement, to strike the Comanche’s left thigh. The blade sliced deep, right to the bone, eliciting a howl of agony from his victim. With blood gushing from his leg, that man lost control of his pony, and the animal veered off away from the main band towards the adobe walls.
Surprised and exhilarated by his own apparently deadly skill, Alfredo turned to shout his defiance at the rest of the warriors. But before any words had even left his mouth, an arrow struck him just above the bridge of his nose, penetrating his skull and driving on into his brain. Death was gory but instantaneous, which in a way was a blessing, because had he been captured his fate would have been unimaginable.
As the solitary night guard toppled backwards into the dust, the terrified cattle gathered speed and disappeared into the night, followed closely by their new owners. The sole exception was Set-tainte, who briefly reined in within sight of San Marcos’s walls. He watched angrily as his wounded compatriot collapsed sideways from his pony, and lay moaning and twitching on the ground.
It occurred to the chief that he should at least attempt a recovery of the animal, but then flickering lights appeared within the settlement, and he recognized that such an attempt would be too risky on his own. As he turned away to rejoin the others, his lean features were transformed into a wolfish smile. Even if the Mexicans caught the pony, they would get little use from it, because in a very short time, he and his warriors were coming back. And then these pathetic farmers would learn just what it meant to encounter a Comanche war party!
‘Seems as though it’s a life for a life,’ Bannock commented quietly, as he gazed down at the suffering Comanche. ‘Well, at least they know one of you fellas had some fight in him.’
‘But this one is still alive, señor.’ Luis commented innocently.
The two men were with a number of other light sleepers, congregated just beyond the walls. One of the villagers had taken hold of the pony’s reins and was leading it away. The others were gazing glumly over at the now deserted arroyo. One pony seemed a poor exchange for a herd of cattle.
Bannock grunted. ‘Looking at that leg, he’s likely gonna bleed out before we finish this conversation. And if he doesn’t, then so much the worse for him. What was your night hawk called?’
‘Alfredo,’ Luis replied sadly. ‘He was a brave hombre.’
‘The question is, are the rest of you prepared to fight like he did? Because after tonight, there ain’t any doubt in my mind that those bastards will be back. And next time it’ll be a murder raid!’
A mixture of fear and determination came to the Mexican’s eyes. ‘To protect our families, we will have to fight, but can we hope to survive without help?’
Bannock chuckled dryly. ‘I reckon not. That’s why I’ve decided to stick around for a while longer. Hell, it ain’t as though I’ve got anywhere else to be, right now.’
His eyes welling up with tears, Luis clasped the other man’s hands, but the American hadn’t finished. ‘Besides, seems like I just can’t get away from the killing. Hand me that machete.’ Hefting the deadly implement in his hand, he remarked, ‘Appears like this here’s the only weapon you’ve got in this place that’s worth a damn.’ So saying, he strode over to the dying Comanche.
The warrior, his face contorted with pain, still managed to stare up at him with venom in his eyes.
‘I ain’t gonna try and make you plead for your miserable hide,’ Bannock announced. ‘Because I know just how tough you cockchafers are. So all I’ll say to you is, rot in hell!’
With that, he took a mighty swing that was pretty much guaranteed to hurt his injured side. When force was combined with skill, the heavy blade wasn’t just effective against limbs: it could also cleave through the neck of a grown man, which is exactly what happened. With Luis and the others looking on in horror and disgust, the Comanche’s head was cleanly separated from its torso. As a torrent of blood gushed forth, the hideous trophy rolled a few inches before settling in the dust, a now lifeless gaze seemingly aimed accusingly at his killer.
Ignoring the pain from his wound, Bannock casually tossed the machete to the ground, and then fixed hard eyes on his host. ‘Afore you get to bleating, I did that for a reason. I want that bastard’s head on a spike over the main gate. It’ll show the war party that our intentions are serious, and it might just goad them into making a mistake.’ He waited a moment for that to sink in before adding, ‘Come first light, we’re gonna have to see about how to defend this place, so I’m heading for some more shuteye.’
As he turned away, the startled peon called after him. ‘If all Americanos are like you, God help us if our two countries ever go to war.’
Chapter Eight
Even as the new day dawned, word had already spread that the mysterious gringo intended to help them in their fight against the raiders from the north. After the death of their friend Alfredo, no one could doubt that the settlement would be next. Yet as the villagers stepped out into the compound and discovered the grisly severed head on display, some of them began to wonder who they should be most afraid of.
Unusually for the sociable Mexicans, the communal breakfast turned out to be a hurried and uncomfortable repast. Not only was Bannock wearing his fearsome knife and brace of Colts, but he had also produced two long guns. Having placed these meaningfully against a wall, the American began thoughtfully pacing the compound, apparently scrutinizing the meagre defences. In truth, he already knew what had to be done, but it didn’t hurt to put on a show. And his inspection did confirm his earlier opinion that the former church, as the strongest building, would have to act as a last ditch defensive position if such were necessary. But it would serve no good purpose to mention any of that just yet.
Once Luis and his daughter appeared, it was time to take the bull by the horns, but first that man had his own suggestion to make. ‘Shouldn’t we try and build some of these walls up, and get the gates back on?’ he asked uncertainly.
‘It’s too damn late for any of that, mister,’ retorted Bannock uncompromisingly. ‘They’re gonna be down your throats before you know it. Besides, Comanches don’t like high walls and enclosed spaces, and if they chose not to make a frontal attack, it could turn out even worse for you.’
Luis was mystified, and as Pepita helped with the translation, so were the others. ‘How could that be?’ he enquired.
Bannock shook his head despairingly. ‘You fellas really don’t know what you’re up against, do you? Think about it. Since you haven’t got around to digging a well, your only water supply is the river over yonder, which is fine until somebody gets between you and it. All they have to do is surround this place and lob in a few fire arrows, and suddenly you’re in deep shit. These buildings might be adobe, but they’re still vulnerable. The roof supports are all wood, and I’m betting that there’s brushwood across them under the bricks.’ The American briefly paused for breath. He really couldn’t remember a time when he’d had to do so much damn jawing.
‘So the best and only chance you’ve got is to encourage them to ride on in,’ he continued. ‘And then hit them hard. And keep on hitting. Most always, Comanches don’t like taking heavy casualties. Makes them think the spirits are against them. That head ain’t up there on a spike just for the hell of it. No siree. It’s to get
them riled up and angry, and out for blood. That way the sons of bitches are less apt to think straight, which could just give us an edge.’
‘So what do we do?’ Luis asked resignedly.
‘For a start, I want men up on the walls, standing guard. Anything moves out there, I need to know about it.’
Such a demand was obviously sensible, and following Luis’s translation, two men scurried up on to the highest parts of the walls.
Next, Bannock indicated the main entrance. ‘Get what’s left of those gates off the hinges and inside. Lean them up against the walls, out of sight. It’ll encourage the cockchafers to come in through there. Once they’re in, I’ll be wanting your men to push them across the opening to block the way out.’
Luis was aghast. As the only English-speaking adult, he was bearing the brunt of Bannock’s revelations. ‘Madre de Dios, but that is madness. They’ll slaughter us all!’
‘Not if we slaughter them first,’ Bannock retorted. ‘Which brings me to long guns. Anybody fired a rifle before?’
The translation was met with a sea of blank faces.
‘Jesus H. Christ! Does anyone want to fire a rifle?’
This time, one man nodded, pointing tentatively towards the Hawken, rather than the captured musket. There was a guarded gleam in his eyes that hinted at his decision not being entirely random.
‘Oh, so you fancy a real gun, do you?’ Bannock chuckled. ‘Good choice.’
The volunteer’s name was Tomas, and he had obviously used some kind of rifle before, because he tucked the butt into his shoulder and glanced down the long barrel with every appearance of competence.
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