‘Suppose we tell ole Wolf Runner we’re right took with your company?’ Waco demanded, scowling at the Comanches on the rim. ‘And that he can go climb up his own butt end.’
‘He wouldn’t like that one lil bit, boy,’ the Kid replied. ‘And, seeing’s how all the cards’re stacked his way, we don’t have a heap of choice but play ’em how he wants it.’
‘We could show him that we mean business,’ O’Day suggested.
‘He’d right soon show us that he means it even bigger,’ drawled the Kid.
‘The odds wouldn’t be much greater than against that bunch which attacked me,’ O’Day pointed out. ‘And they didn’t impress me as being smart, or dangerous warriors.’
‘You’d’ve likely learned different if we hadn’t happened along,’ the Kid warned quietly. ‘See, they wasn’t but tuivitsis; which-same’s young hot-heads who don’t know better’n charge in head down and horns a-hooking blind. Those fellers up there though, they’re most of ’em tehnaps. Old, seasoned-on-red-meat brave-hearts, with hair hanging on their belts. Mister, even with us having happened along, you’d find them both smart and dangerous.’
‘So you conclude to do like Wolf Runner wants, Comanch’?’ Dusty asked.
‘He done the concluding for me,’ the Kid corrected. ‘Only, just so long’s you get Giselle back to Hell right-side-up and with all her buttons fastened, everything’ll be fine. No ten-coup war leader’s going to let hurt come to Long Walker’s grandson, unless he can offer a real good reason for doing it.’
‘You ride careful, mind, you blasted Comanche,’ Dusty ordered, with more concern than command in his tone. ‘Is there anything you’ll be needing?’
‘Nary a thing,’ grinned the Kid. ‘Fact being, I’ll likely be living better’n you white folks. Us Comanches know how to travel well-fed and comfortable.’
Although Dusty and Waco had serious misgivings, they raised no further objections to their amigo being held as a hostage. They had faith in his superior knowledge concerning the risks he was taking. All they could do would be to ensure that they carried out their side of the agreement.
‘I don’t want to go to Hell!’ Giselle whined as the Kid rode back to join the waiting Kweharehnuh.
‘Nobody does, but they go on sinning just the same,’ Waco replied. ‘And, even without Comanch’ being held hostage, you’d get there, one or other of ’em, whichever way you headed.’
‘We’ve no other choice but go on, Giselle,’ Emma went on firmly. ‘Don’t fret yourself. Ed’ll see that nothing bad happens to you.’
Although Giselle looked anything but convinced, she kept quiet and accompanied the rest of her party in the direction of the stream. If O’Day’s behavior was anything to go by, he shared with the brunette in feeling ill at ease. He constantly twisted in his saddle, searching the surrounding terrain with wary and worried glances. After a short time, however, he relaxed. All of the Indians had disappeared, taking the Kid with them, and the man could detect no sign of them. Neither could Dusty nor Waco. Their examination of the locality was less obvious, but possibly more thorough than O’Day’s. The apparent dearth of watchers did not fool them. They both knew that keen-eyed wolf-scouts were keeping them under observation all the time.
In passing, Dusty nodded towards the buffalo wallow the Kid had mentioned as a place in which they might have been able to fort up and fight. It was about a hundred yards from the stream; a large depression worn by countless bison rolling on, pawing at and generally churning up the ground.
‘That’s where we’ll bed down for the night. In the bottom. It won’t be comfortable, but no raider can sneak in on us down there.’
‘How about wood for a fire?’ O’Day asked, looking around. ‘We’ll have to carry it from the trees by the stream.’
‘You can go fetch some, if you’re so minded,’ Waco drawled. ‘But me, I sure don’t aim to chance it.’
‘I thought that the Indians had given us a safe passage to Hell,’ O’Day pointed out.
‘They have,’ Dusty agreed. ‘Only they don’t trust us a whole heap and’re having us watched.’
‘Where?’ O’Day gasped, swiveling around and glaring about him. ‘I don’t see anybody!’
‘They’re wolf-scouts, trained to follow, watch and not be seen,’ Dusty explained. ‘It’s work for tuivitsis, not tehnaps. Happen one of them should see you all alone in the woods, he might not be able to resist the temptation to count himself an easy coup.’
‘They stop resisting real easy, friend,’ Waco added. ‘There’s never enough coups to go ’round for all the young bucks who want ’em.’
By that time, the party had reached the edge of the stream. Dismounting, they removed the horses’ bits and allowed them to drink. Giselle kept darting glances from O’Day to the range across which they had been travelling. She took her mount—one of the dead soldier’s horses, borrowed by Dusty from Lieutenant Kitson—a short way down-stream of the others. Tired from the exertions of the day, Emma felt little desire to make conversation and paid no attention to the brunette. O’Day resumed his investigations into the habits of the Comanche, so Dusty and Waco did not notice Giselle’s furtive actions.
‘What is this “counting coup”?’ the man inquired. ‘Is it another name for taking a scalp?’
‘Nope,’ Dusty replied. ‘It rates as more important than that, to the Comanches, anyways. They say that anybody can scalp a dead man, it proves nothing. But to count coup shows that the feller doing it has courage.’
‘But how—?’
‘The brave has to touch his enemy, either while killing him, or soon after, and say, “A:he,” which means “I claim it.” Once that’s been done and said, he’s counted coup.’
‘Way ole Comanch’ tells it,’ Waco went on, ‘there ain’t nothing sets up a lusty young buck with those pretty lil Injun gals like having brought back plenty of loot and to’ve said “A: he” good and often. And the Comanches don’t go for no taking seconds, thirds nor fourths.’
‘That went right by me,’ O’Day admitted.
‘Some of the tribes let the second, third and fourth braves to touch an enemy count lesser shares in the coup,’ Dusty elaborated.
‘They do say Osages let ’most anybody who wants to share the coup, whether they was around to touch the body or not,’ Waco grinned. ‘Could be they just don’t like Osages.’
‘The Comanches figure that they’ve got so many enemies, they don’t need to share coups,’ Dusty drawled. ‘All the other tribes called them the Tshaoh, the Enemy People and, most times, that’s what they used to be.’
‘You gentlemen appear to know a lot about Indians,’ O’Day praised.
‘All we know, Comanch’ taught us,’ Dusty answered. ‘His mother was the daughter of a Pehnane Comanche war lodge’s chief. Which’s just about as high as a man can get in the tribe.’
‘I thought your friend was a half—’ O’Day began, then, as frowns came to the Texans’ brows, revised his words. ‘Part Indian.’
‘He’s all white to us, mister!’ Waco growled.
‘No offence intended and I hope none’s been taken,’ O’Day apologized and, with the air of wanting to change the subject, continued, ‘Is a brave’s statement that he has counted coup always accepted?’
‘If there’s any doubt on it and he’s challenged, the band’s medicine man or woman can have him swear to it on the sacred sun oath,’ Dusty answered. ‘No Comanche will dare to lie after he’s taken it.’
‘Do their medicine people have that much of a hold on them?’
‘Their religion has, anyways. They take their beliefs a damned sight more serious than most white folks take God.’
‘But they must believe in magic if Simm— Giselle’s husband could take a hold of them with tricks.’
‘Only if it’s some kind of trick they’ve never seen and don’t know how to pull,’ Dusty corrected. ‘Their medicine men and women have been pulling things out of the air and the like since afore Columbus landed. No sir, don’t sell Simmy Lampart short. I didn’t see him do it, but that sawing-his-wife-in-half trick must’ve been something special to fool the Kweharehnuhs’ medicine woman.’
Something had been said which Waco instinctively knew had significance beyond the general trend of the conversation. He scowled and tried to recall just what it had been. Before he could do so, an interruption came which drove it temporarily out of his thoughts.
While the men had been talking, Giselle had allowed her mount to drink and had then led it away from the water. Emma was kneeling on the edge of the stream and bathing her face. Nobody was looking at the small brunette as she turned the animal’s head to the southeast and swung into the saddle. If she had given more thought to her actions, she might have met with greater success in her desertion. Instead of walking slowly away, she gave her mount’s ribs a sharp kick which made it grunt and bound forward.
‘What the—?’ Waco spat out, spinning around with hands fanning to the butts of his Army Colts.
Also alerted by the sudden thunder of hooves, Dusty and O’Day turned with equal speed. They too sent their hands towards weapons. Crossing his body, Dusty’s palms enfolded the grips of his Peacemakers. All in a single, incredibly swift blur of movement, the matched Colts left their holsters and the hammers clicked to full cock. Although O’Day matched the small Texan’s speed in turning, his long barreled revolver had not cleared leather by the time Dusty was standing ready to shoot.
Shuffling hurriedly on her knees, Emma clawed to free the Navy Colt from her waistband. Anger flickered across her face as she saw, not an attacking Kweharehnuh warrior, but Giselle Lampart galloping away as fast as the borrowed horse would carry her.
‘Stop the crazy bitch!’ Emma screeched, furious at the thought of Giselle—who was vital to her plans for enrichment—behaving in such a stupid manner.
That proved to be a piece of needless advice. Waco reacted to the desertion without the need for prompting. Twirling the Colts on his trigger-fingers, he caused them to return to their holsters with the minimum of effort on his part. Then he caught hold of the tobiano’s saddlehorn and swung himself on to its back. Reaching forward, he jerked free and drew back the hackamore which was fixed to the bridle’s bosal.
The horse Waco sat belonged to his work mount 21 when back at the ranch and it had been trained with careful patience. So it responded to his command of, ‘Back’, despite the lack of bit and reins to augment the single word. Instantly it started to retreat from the water’s edge; chin tucked in, neck well flexed, hind legs moving in long, confident strides and forefeet taking deliberate steps. Waco sat with relaxed, easy balance, his vertebrae perpendicular for greater control of his horse’s movements.
Once clear of the water, the blond struck the tobiano’s near shoulder with his right spur. At the signal, its forelegs left the ground and it pivoted fast on its rear hooves. With its head pointing after the departing brunette, it was urged into motion. Like the tuivitsis earlier, the youngster built his mount’s pace up to a gallop in a very short time. Doing all he knew how to increase the speed, he guided it across the range.
‘Shall we go after them?’ O’Day asked, allowing his weapon to slide back into its holster.
‘Likely Brother Matt can handle it,’ Dusty answered and returned his guns to their holsters. ‘What the hell’s gotten into Giselle, Emma?’
‘She’s scared that the Indians will want her to be sawn in half when they come for their ammunition,’ the blonde guessed, glaring after the riders and stabbing the Navy Colt into her waistband. ‘With Simmy dead, there’ll be nobody who can handle the trick.’
‘You say that Si—her husband is dead?’ O’Day put in harshly.
‘He was shot by some of my people when they robbed him,’ Emma explained, using the excuse she had arranged to make on her arrival in Hell. ‘We’re just on our way back after hunting them down.’
‘Look there!’ Dusty gritted, pointing towards the wooded land which fringed much of the stream’s banks.
Having no wish to let the conversation continue on the subject of Mayor Lampart’s death, the small Texan had been seeking a way to end it. Providence had presented him with the means to do so. Looking in the direction he was pointing, Emma and O’Day let out ejaculations of surprise and alarm. A stocky young Antelope brave stood on the edge of the trees, his repeater cradled on his left elbow and his whole attitude showing that he was watching the pursuit of Giselle.
‘Like I said,’ Dusty drawled. ‘Wolf Runner’s got us watched.’
‘How long as he been there?’ Emma breathed, hand creeping towards her revolver and voice showing tension.
‘All the time,’ Dusty answered.
‘What shall we do?’ O’Day demanded.
‘Nothing we can do, except wait for Brother Matt to fetch her back safe and sound.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’
‘Mister,’ Dusty said quietly, ‘if he doesn’t, we’re in with the water over the willows and a fast stream running.’
‘Huh?’ O’Day grunted.
‘It’s what trail drivers say when they’re in just about as bad trouble as they can find,’ Dusty explained.
‘You’ve been on trail drives then?’ O’Day asked.
‘Some,’ Dusty admitted, wondering if apprehension over their danger or some other reason had prompted the question. ‘You’ll likely see what I meant, happen Matt doesn’t bring her back.’
‘So will Comanche, even worse than we do,’ Emma put in bitterly. ‘That stupid, no-account little tail-peddler. She’s got cow-droppings for brains. Damn it all, without her—’
The blonde stopped speaking, realizing that she had come close to saying too much about her plans and reasons for having persuaded Giselle to accompany her in the return to Hell.
‘She’s scared of something,’ Dusty answered. ‘Well, we’d best make out that we figure everything’s all right. Let’s take the horses back to the buffalo wallow and start making camp.’
‘Your brother hasn’t caught her yet,’ O’Day commented, peering across the range and laying emphasis on the second word. ‘But I’m sure he will. You are a remarkably competent family.’
At first, Giselle maintained her lead on Waco. That did not surprise the youngster as he had already analyzed the situation and formed correct conclusions, based upon his practical knowledge of equestrian matters. Smaller and lighter than her pursuer, Giselle possessed no other advantages in her flight. She was neither such a good rider, nor so well mounted. Kept short of cash by a Congress more concerned with winning votes than expending the taxpayers’ money on defense projects, the United States’ Cavalry could not afford to purchase high quality mounts for its enlisted men. On the other hand, Waco sat a horse belonging to a ranch which selected only the best for its riders and insisted that the animals be kept in the peak of condition.
So Waco realized that, barring accidents, it was inevitable he must overtake her.
On they raced through the gathering twilight—not an ideal time to be riding at a gallop over unfamiliar terrain. For all that, the woman encouraged her mount to greater efforts with cries, jabbing heels and slapping reins. Apart from an occasional soft word of praise, Waco rode in silence and concentrated on what he was doing. Controlling his speeding tobiano’s natural inclination to increase its speed until it was rocketing along blindly, he watched Giselle for any hint that she had become aware of his presence to her rear.
None came. What did show were growing symptoms that the brunette was rapidly losing control over her horse. By that stage of the flight, however, it was getting blown and its pace was starting to flag.
Nearer thundered Waco, edging the tobiano to the brunette’s left. That had been done deliberately. It was unlikely that Giselle would show sufficient good sense to halt, so he intended to give her no choice in the matter. Having been trained in the typical white man’s fashion, the cavalry horse had always had its rider climb on or off at the near side. If it felt its burden leaving over the right flank, its reactions might be unpredictable and dangerous to her or Waco.
Coming level with the woman, the youngster saw her head swing in his direction. Even as she opened her mouth to either speak or scream, at the same time attempting to rein her horse away, he leaned across and coiled his right arm about her waist. Giving her no time to resist, he cued the tobiano with knee pressure so that it veered away from the other animal. In her anxiety, Giselle had inadvertently helped Waco. The cavalry horse had shown little response to her manipulation of the reins, but it angled off slightly and furthered the blond’s efforts at removing her from the saddle.
Giselle screeched, a mixture of fear and anger, as she felt herself being dragged sideways. Luckily for them both she had sufficient understanding of the position to kick her feet free from the stirrup irons—but she did not release her grasp on the reins.
Alarmed by the unexpected disturbance of the weight on its saddle, the cavalry horse started to shy even farther to the right. Giselle’s rump and right leg slid across the seat until she was clear of it and hung suspended from Waco’s encircling arm. Fright more than sense caused her to release the reins, but they had already snatched the horse’s head around. Disrupted by the woman’s actions, its head drawn abruptly in a new direction, the animal lost its footing. It went down and rolled over. Fortunately, the tobiano had turned just far enough to the left and galloped by without adding to the cavalry horse’s troubles by trampling upon it.
Using what guidance he could exert with the hackamore, 22 Waco set about bringing the tobiano to a halt. Still screeching, Giselle tried to reach his face with her fingernails. Spitting out a threat to drop her, he slackened his hold a little. That brought an end to her attempts to scratch her way free. Waco steered his horse in a wide curve which ate away its galloping momentum. On reaching a walking pace, he lowered the kicking, still protesting brunette to the ground. Then he rode to where her horse had regained its feet. Dropping from his saddle, he allowed the tobiano’s hackamore to dangle free and walked up to Giselle’s mount. Although badly shaken by the fall, heavily lathered and winded, it did not appear to be seriously injured.
Pattering footfalls came to the youngster’s ears as he straightened up from examining the horse. Turning, he found a wild-faced Giselle bearing down furiously on him. Spitting out what he took to be obscenities in some foreign language, the brunette thrust her right hand into its jacket pocket. Seeing the Colt House Pistol emerging, he did not hesitate. For all that, she had moved with such speed that he was almost too late. Leaping towards the little woman, he watched the snub-nosed revolver come clear of the pocket and line in his direction. Its hammer went back under the pressure of her thumb, causing the trigger to click out its sheath to where her forefinger was waiting to press it.
Around lashed Waco’s left hand. He struck Giselle’s extended right wrist and deflected the House Pistol’s muzzle. Flame spiked from the short tube and the bullet it propelled could not have missed the youngster by more than an inch. The narrow escape brought an instant reaction. Even before the incident, he had never liked Giselle’s ways or morals. So he was less inclined to take her sex into consideration than he would have been with most women. Letting out a low, savage hiss, he drove his right hand in a slap which sent her spinning around and away from him. Dropping the House Pistol, she tumbled face down and lay sobbing, with both hands clutching at her cheek.
‘Get up!’ Waco ordered, retrieving the House Pistol and tucking it into his Levi’s pocket.
Something in the youngster’s tone caused Giselle to obey. Crawling to her feet, she turned a tear-stained face in what she hoped would be a pleading and pathetic manner to him.
‘D ... Don’t take me b ... back there!’ Giselle pleaded. ‘I ... I’ll share my money with you ... you.’
‘Like hell,’ Waco replied. ‘You start walking back where we come from. And, lady, if Lon gets killed through this, I’ll do just the same to you.’