Open Range Fury

by George Arthur

  ‘Yeah,’ Bannock snapped, as he abruptly swivelled on his heels and made for the wall, at the same time yelling, ‘Get that damn gate back in place!’

  From his familiar vantage point he could see that the Comanches were indeed on the move, but their intentions were far from obvious. This time they had split into two groups. One party moved round towards the far wall, but kept beyond easy rifle range. The others made off at speed into the surrounding hills.

  ‘Those devils are cooking up something,’ he muttered almost to himself.

  Then he suddenly found Luis at his shoulder, his honest features perplexed.

  ‘Who is that hombre, señor?’

  ‘Oh, he’s that all right,’ Bannock replied with feeling. ‘I don’t know what he’s calling himself at the moment, but his real name is Braxton. Silas Braxton.’

  ‘I don’t think he likes you.’

  ‘You could tell, huh?’

  The mild attempt at humour was lost on the Mexican. ‘But what would bring him to San Marcos?’

  ‘I reckon he’s probably on the dodge.’

  There was a limit to the other man’s language skills. ‘Dodge. What is this dodge?’

  ‘Don’t you folks know it’s rude to whisper?’ Braxton called up. ‘Seems like I’m gonna be staying in this shit hole for a while, what with those Comanches out there, an’ all. So where can I stable my horse? He needs food and a good rub down. A bit like me,’ he added suggestively, his eyes drifting off to settle on a young señorita.

  Before anyone could answer him, events beyond the settlement once more intruded. The Indians beyond the far wall had dismounted to create a small blaze, and were igniting a number of fire arrows. It was now all too obvious what their intentions were, and unfortunately there was no feasible way to stop them. The mission walls had not really been built with vigorous defence in mind. No firing steps had been provided, or even any kind of walkway on the wall behind the church. Their assailants would be able to torch the structures on that side with impunity.

  ‘Looks like it’s all starting again,’ Bannock grimly announced to Luis. ‘Tell everyone to clear out of those buildings.’ Then he turned and peered off to where the other band had disappeared. Instinctively he knew that something else was brewing.

  Recognizing that any interest in him had abruptly ceased, Braxton grunted and remarked, ‘Guess I’ll just make my own arrangements then. It sure is a real pleasure visiting with you folks.’ And with that he spat a stream of yellow phlegm into the dust, before taking the reins of his horse and leading it towards the former church. Located more centrally in the compound, it seemed to offer rather more protection . . . at least for the moment.

  Gleefully unleashing a range of demonic howls, the Comanches rapidly closed in until they were just outside the far wall. With complete impunity, they loosed a wave of fire arrows at the timber roof supports. These had baked under the sun for years, and the result was all too predictable: soon light grey smoke began to curl up into the sky.

  For the villagers it was all immensely traumatic. They were soon to be without a roof over their heads – but Bannock had even more pressing concerns. From the side facing the main entrance came the thrumming of many hoofs: San Marcos’s herd of cattle was returning . . . at an even faster pace than when they had been stolen! Comanche warriors accompanied them at their rear and along their flanks, tightly controlling the direction, and screaming wildly to keep them moving. It was obvious what their intentions were.

  Knowing that the ‘lean-to’ gates couldn’t withstand such a collision, the American’s response was unsurprising: ‘Oh, shit!’

  Turning to the terrified lookout, he patted him on the shoulder and pointed to the stairs. ‘Seems like we’re all done up here, my friend.’

  Whether the villager had understood any of that, mattered not. He had seen the same sight that Bannock had. He, too, recognized what was coming, and his response was to sketch the universally recognized sign of the cross. Then together they trotted down the stairs, and across the compound.

  Luis held his daughter in one hand and a machete in the other, as he watched the American’s rapid approach. He had been around him long enough to know that, from his expression, they were all in deep trouble.

  ‘The sons of bitches are fixing on stampeding your cattle through the gates. Then they’ll surely follow them in. And this time we’ve got neither surprise, nor enough of anything else to stop them. Our only chance is to fort up in that church, but if they fire the roof . . .’ He shrugged, and left the sentence unfinished. There really wasn’t anything else to say.

  As though emphasizing their likely fate, the timber cross-beams known as lattillas, which were themselves covered in extremely flammable brushwood, began to crackle as the flames really took hold. Very soon there wouldn’t be a habitable building left in the settlement.

  The man known as Silas Braxton, amongst other things, rubbed his horse down and pondered his parlous situation. It really appeared as though he had leapt out of the frying pan straight into the fire. Quite literally, as it was shaping up. And he certainly hadn’t expected to run into an old adversary in such a Godforsaken spot. At the thought of Bannock, his left hand reflexively touched the scar on his cheek. He wondered if any of the locals had discovered that individual’s given name yet. ‘Highly unlikely,’ he muttered to himself. Perhaps he would have to enlighten them. The thought brought a chill smile to his damaged features.

  Then his attention was taken by the sudden influx of residents, clutching whatever belongings they had managed to salvage, and he instinctively knew what was occurring: this was the designated ‘last stand’, and by great ill fortune he had stumbled into it with impeccable timing. He wasn’t a man to ponder on ‘if onlys’, but there was no denying that he should probably have taken his chances in the open. As it was, he certainly had more to worry about than a long-standing feud with his fellow countryman.

  At that moment, Bannock himself entered the church and called over to him. ‘We ain’t overly endowed with firearms, so right now you’d help yourself if you helped us.’ He waited a moment for Braxton to close in, and then added more quietly, ‘You and me have got matters that need settling, but this ain’t the time. Agreed?’

  The newcomer viewed him through narrowed eyes for a moment, before nodding slowly. ‘I reckon.’ He continued to regard the other man speculatively. ‘So how’s this gonna pan out?’

  Bannock kept his voice low. ‘In truth, I believe we’re well and truly screwed. But this is the hand that we’ve been dealt, so we’ll just have to go with it. If nothing else, I owe it to that little girl with the red dress.’

  Braxton’s eyebrows rose in surprise. The child was way too young for it to be sexual. ‘Kin?’

  ‘Nah. Just down to something that happened a few days ago. Seems like a lifetime away now.’ Bannock shook his head, as though trying to clear a persistent and unwelcome memory. There was certainly no desire on his part to share confidences with such a man. ‘I could use your Colts at the entrance,’ he continued briskly. ‘There’s no point in barricading the door, ’cause if those devils fire the roof we’re all finished. Our only chance is to keep them at a distance.’ Even as he spoke, he knew that their chances of achieving that were slim and, as the rather weak joke went, ‘Slim had just left town!’

  Galloping by the side of the terrified cattle, Set-tainte was suffused with elation. Fiercely, he lashed out with the short whip that he habitually carried. There was surely nothing to exceed the joy of warfare. Not even the pleasuring of his wives. And with his warriors around him, and the enemy’s walls fast approaching, there was nowhere else he would rather be.

  Too late, the leading animals saw the solid objects ahead and frantically tried to turn away, but they were hemmed in on three sides. With a tremendous crash, that literally snapped the necks of the two front-runners, the herd ploughed into the gates, smashing them aside. Those behind trampled over the hapless creatures brought down in fro
nt, and raced on into the compound, followed by the jubilant Comanches. Above them still sat the severed head of their comrade. Having dried out somewhat under the strong sun, it now bore a macabre fixed grin, but on this occasion they didn’t even glance at it. The carnage of the previous assault was still too raw in their minds, and their attention was elsewhere, searching intently for any resistance. And yet this time there were no lethal, hidden powder charges, or concealed ropes waiting to trip them. Just wrecked or burning buildings.

  Nevertheless, the chief wasn’t taking any more chances with the lives of his warriors. Sharply reining in, he signalled for them to do the same. Ahead of him there were only winded and suddenly aimless cattle, and what he recognized as a sometime place of worship for the Mexican missionaries. Quickly coming to a decision, he barked out a series of commands.

  Half a dozen warriors urged their mounts forwards. With great skill, they hung down over the sides of their animals, so that only their hands and feet were visible. Using the Mexicans’ livestock as cover, they advanced on the large building. Immediately, shots rang out, and at least two cows crumpled to the ground. The Indians performed a rapid U turn and raced away. Their brief foray had told them all they needed to know.

  Set-tainte nodded his head in satisfaction. The entrance to the building was strongly defended, but with there being no windows or even an open bell tower, it was the only part that was. The warriors who had fired the buildings were now streaming expectantly into the compound. The chief’s broad smile displayed his genuine good humour. He had more work for them. And the sure knowledge that they were going to prevail brought savage joy to his heart.

  Waving the new arrivals off to the right, and so out of sight of any gunmen, he then pointed at the church roof and bared his teeth. Not a man amongst them failed to take his meaning. Quickly they gathered together the makings for a small fire, and then lit it from one of the blazing roof timbers. Revenge was indeed going to be sweet. In particular, the sickly sweet smell of burning flesh!

  After the swiftly curtailed sortie by the mounted Indians, Bannock knew exactly what was coming next. He and those with firearms were crouched behind a makeshift barricade, inside the church’s entrance. Their severely restricted field of fire was a lethal weakness, for which there was only really one answer. Looking back into the body of the church, he saw the villagers observing him nervously. The men clasped their rudimentary weapons, whilst the women clutched their children. Then he spotted Pepita’s red dress, and his stomach churned uncomfortably.

  ‘God damn it! Why has it come to this?’ he silently demanded of himself.

  Knowing that there could be no good answer to that, the American glanced over at the Paterson Colt revolvers in Braxton’s hands. They were identical to his, and he recalled from experience that that man was well skilled in their use.

  ‘Hey, Braxton,’ he called. ‘How’s about you an’ me taking on those heathen sons of bitches? Either that, or we all burn to death in here.’

  Braxton regarded him impassively. ‘Since you put it like that, how can I refuse?’ Gesturing at his surroundings, he added, ‘I’ve never had any call for religion anyhu. Just don’t get behind me with those belt guns. Savvy?’

  ‘Backshooting’s not my style,’ retorted the other man. ‘You of all men should know that.’

  Braxton’s facial scar twitched slightly. ‘Now there you go again. On the prod.’ Even as he spoke, he was checking the loads in his revolvers.

  Nearby, Tomas was clutching the Hawken. It had been temporarily returned to him, because he at least knew how to use it. The old-timer with the sawn-off was also behind the barricade, along with another peon who had been entrusted with Bannock’s captured musket.

  As the two gringos stood up, Bannock called back to Luis. ‘Tell these three to give us covering fire. Oh, and if I don’t make it back, Tomas gets to keep the rifle.’ Then he added under his breath, ‘Not that those devils will let him have it for long.’

  After winking encouragingly at Pepita, he reluctantly turned to his dubious ally. ‘Anyone with a fire arrow, blast them!’

  ‘I didn’t come down with yesterday’s rain,’ snarled Braxton. ‘Save your advice for these poxy greasers. They might actually give a damn!’ With that, he cocked both Colts and gestured outside. ‘Let’s get this done!’

  Chapter Eleven

  The two desperate men burst out of the church and turned to their left. Even though possessing four of the most potent weapons available, they still had only twenty shots available in total. And that presupposed that there would be no misfires. All in all, they had taken a hell of a lot upon themselves!

  Old hands at fighting, they remained a few yards apart, so as to present less of a target. Even though terribly outnumbered, there was something predatory about their rapid advance. With no cover of any kind, they were dreadfully exposed, but knew that they had to concentrate on the fire starters. At the very least, they might be able to delay the inevitable. It was what was known in the God-damned British Army as a ‘forlorn hope’.

  The Comanches were taken completely by surprise. They couldn’t possibly have expected such a suicidal assault on foot, because it was something they wouldn’t even consider under any circumstances.

  Bannock was the first to shoot. His ball struck a warrior standing near the small fire that the Indians had created. By great good fortune it killed the man stone dead, and sent him tumbling on to the flames, completely smothering them. Then his companion opened up with both Colts simultaneously, striking a pony in the belly and a warrior in the shoulder. Damn good shooting for a man on the move.

  ‘Kill anyone with a bow,’ Bannock bellowed, momentarily forgetting that he was partnering an experienced man killer.

  ‘They’ve all got bows, an’ I don’t need telling,’ Braxton yelled back.

  And yet, the first part of that retort was not strictly true, because at that moment one particular warrior’s treasured status symbol, an old Brown Bess cavalry carbine, was being aimed directly at him. With its out-dated flintlock mechanism, it harked back to a bygone era, but it could still be dangerous, as it was about to demonstrate. There was a flash as, miraculously, the powder ignited in the pan, and a large calibre ball flew at the indignant American. With a tremendous clang, it struck the barrel of his right-hand Colt, just as he was in the act of cocking it. The revolver was torn from his grasp with such force that he nearly fell over. As it was, Braxton was badly shaken and had obviously lost the use of his hand.

  Thrusting one gun in his belt, Bannock instinctively closed in, and reached out to steady the other man, whilst at the same time searching out another target. Ignoring the ‘musketeer’, who had expended his single shot, he fired at another archer. The ball gorily removed the top of the warrior’s head, and pitched him backwards to the hard ground with a great thump.

  ‘Unhand me, damn it,’ Braxton rasped. ‘I ain’t some poxy invalid.’ So saying, he pulled clear of Bannock’s grip, and took rapid aim with his remaining Colt. Although in great pain, his ball nevertheless winged one of their assailants.

  Now side by side, in a cloud of acrid smoke, the two men stood their ground and kept firing. But they had lost a little of their momentum, and there were just too many Indians opposing them. Then, from the back of the church, a flaming arrow arced across the sky and slammed squarely into one of that building’s roof supports. The archer had obviously lit it from the existing fires, and that action effectively doomed the Americans’ desperate offensive.

  Braxton’s hammer struck an empty nipple, announcing that he had used his five. His other revolver lay on the ground, mangled beyond repair. With the Comanches recovering their natural aggression, it was time to return to the dubious safety of the church.

  ‘You first. I’ll cover you,’ Bannock instructed.

  ‘You just love to give orders, don’t you?’ Braxton rejoined, but nonetheless he turned towards the entrance.

  Bannock, now alone and feeling increasingly
isolated, crouched down to make a smaller target. As he did so, he felt a searing pain as something cut across his right cheek. Had he remained standing, it would undoubtedly have struck his torso full on. With blood trickling over his jaw line, and mounted Indians getting ever closer, he decided that he had given Braxton long enough. Then his right-hand Colt dry-fired, and a disciplined retreat was suddenly out of the question. Turning on his heels, he ran for cover, weaving from side to side to disrupt his opponents’ aim.

  Those Comanches nearest to him yelled loudly and dug their heels in. Grimly expecting the inevitable barbed arrowhead to slam into his back, Bannock could feel prickles of anxiety flow down it. Then, unbelievably, he saw two figures move towards him. One was the grizzled old peon with his twelve-gauge, whilst the other proved to be Tomas. Bannock glimpsed the Hawken in his hands as one might recognize an old friend.

  As the fleeing gringo came level with them, first one shotgun barrel and then the second discharged with a rolling crash. As a useful amount of smoke erupted between them and the Comanches, the long rifle also belched forth its own particular brand of death. As screams of pain came from their mutual enemy, Bannock found himself under cover, and joined by his two rescuers. He nodded and smiled his grateful thanks. Safe again – but for how long?

  Set-tainte watched in disbelief as the white man disappeared within the adobe walls. It really appeared as though he was protected by some higher power. Yet not even that would save him from the blazing inferno that was about to follow. Waving his bleeding and frustrated warriors back from the entrance, he bellowed at those nearest the rear of the building to send more fire arrows into the timber beams. Once the roof fell in, there would be nowhere else left for the surviving villagers to hide. Those that weren’t burnt to death would find him and his men waiting for them. And then he would surely get to try out his new, seven-barrelled gun. The prospect of unleashing that monstrous weapon on defenceless Mexicans brought a flush of pleasure to his bronzed features.