THE SIOUX HALTED before the walls and Braddock stepped forwards, motioning for Azul to join him. Long Lance, Buffalo Man, and Broken Knife sat their ponies in silence, waiting on the formal invitation to dismount.
‘Welcome,’ cried Braddock, ‘it is good to see you here.’
‘Our guns?’ Long Lance grunted. ‘Where are our guns?’
The trader stepped closer to the Indian’s pony, lowering his voice. ‘You gotta listen to the preacher first. Then we talk about the guns.’
Long Lance translated for the others, his words producing an angry reply from Broken Knife. ‘We did not come to hear the holy man talk. We came to buy the guns you promised us.’
Azul spoke: ‘If the stripe-leg soldiers hear that you have bought guns, they will hunt you. If they think you bought them here, they will close this post and there will be no more guns. No more ammunition. It is better that you pretend to listen to the holy man, so that all the whites think that is why you came. Then we can go to the guns.’
Long Lance pondered for a moment, then nodded: ‘You make sense, killer of Lame Bear. I trust you. If you think this is the best thing, then we shall do as you say.’
Again he translated. Buffalo Man ducked his head in acceptance, and after a brief interchange, Broken Knife, too, nodded. The three leaders swung down from their mustangs, followed by their warriors. The ponies were gathered together under the care of the younger braves, and the others clustered before the wagon.
Braddock shouted an order to his men and food and coffee was brought out. The Sioux hunkered on the grass, staring curiously at Bartholomew as the preacher raised his voice in a prayer.
He followed with a hymn that was picked up – on Braddock’s urging – by the people from the trading post.
‘Shall we gather by the river?
The beautiful, beautiful river …’
The singing drowned out Braddock’s voice as he whispered to Long Lance.
‘The guns are in the hills. When the preacher’s done I’ll take you to them. No more’n ten of your braves, though. Enough to carry the gold. When you’ve paid me I’ll show you the hiding place.’
‘Why not all?’ questioned the Indian.
‘I explained that,’ Braddock murmured. ‘If you all up an’ go, it don’t look like you’re here fer the preachin’.’
‘How many men do you have there?’ Long Lance’s question was directed at Azul. ‘How do I know it is not a trap?’
‘Three men,’ said the half-breed. ‘There is no trap.’
Long Lance began to whisper with the others. As the hymn ended, he turned back, nodding. ‘So be it.’
Bartholomew began a fresh prayer, then began to speak in a mixture of English and the Sioux dialect. Those Indians amongst the band who could understand his words translated for the others.
It went on for some time, the earnest old man extolling the virtues of peace and Christianity, the rewards to be gained from peace and the doctrine of loving brotherhood. Long Lance leaned close to Azul and muttered:
‘He sounds like the men who come to tell us we must give away our land and watch the people who take it without harming them. Will he give us a place to live if we do as he asks? Will his religion stop the soldiers from killing us? Or bring back the buffalo the white men drive away?’
Azul shrugged. ‘He’s talking about a place in Heaven. The rewards come then.’
‘We are here now,’ grunted the Sioux. ‘Our rewards are freedom. The grass and the trees and the rivers. The buffalo. Why must we wait when these things are already with us?’
The half-breed shrugged again, unable to offer any satisfactory answer. The service continued and the Indians began to grow restless. Bartholomew sensed that he was losing them and hurried his preaching to an end. He led a ragged intonation of the Lord’s Prayer, then offered to baptize any of his congregation willing to accept the spiritual gifts he offered.
‘Fer Chrissakes!’ Braddock nudged Long Lance. ‘Get some o’ yore people to do it. We need it fer cover.’
‘Then we get the guns?’ queried the Indian.
‘Sure.’ Braddock nodded enthusiastically. ‘We drift off soon as we can.’
Long Lance rose to his feet and shouted an order. There was a grumble of disagreement amongst the warriors, wary of allowing the white man’s magic water to touch them. Long Lance spoke with Buffalo Man and Broken Knife, and the three leaders moved amongst their followers, mouthing low-voiced commands. Reluctantly, about thirty Sioux stood up and began to move towards the wagon.
Bartholomew had climbed down from his makeshift pulpit and now stood beaming alongside the water barrel, his Bible clutched in his left hand. The Sioux formed a group around him, blocking off his vision of their leaders. Slowly they came closer, allowing him to sprinkle the water on their faces as he made the sign of the Cross and intoned a prayer.
As soon as they had received the blessing, most hurried away, fingering the medicine pouches carried around their necks or on their belts and muttering a prayer in their own language.
Long Lance went over to his pony, accompanied by Buffalo Man and Broken Knife. Ten selected braves began to load the pouches on two pack ponies, then mounted up and began to drift away. Mort and Cole came out leading Braddock’s horse and Azul’s gray with Jace and Cary bringing up the rear. The five white men and the half-breed rode after the Sioux.
Braddock swung into the lead position, riding hard for the ridge. His men stayed close, their eyes constantly scanning the surrounding Indians.
It was late afternoon before they reached the plateau and Braddock took them down the tree-covered tunnel to the hidden bowl. The three wagon drivers, each clutching a Winchester carbine, stayed out on the grass with the horses.
‘The guns are there,’ said Braddock. ‘Now let’s see the gold.’
Long Lance shouted to one of his men, who tossed a pouch over. The Sioux chief slit the neck and passed the rawhide sack to Braddock. The trader tilted the bag over his open palm, his face creasing in a wide smile.
The sun lit up a stream of fine, golden powder that glinted dully as it spilled into Braddock’s hand.
‘There is coin in some,’ grunted Long Lance. ‘But most hold the gold powder.’
‘Jesus!’ Braddock’s voice was awed. ‘There must be close on ten thousand dollars’ worth.’
‘Now show us the guns,’ demanded Long Lance. ‘We have done our part.’
Braddock hurried over to the wagons, stripping the canvas back from the first and tugging a crate loose. The wooden box crashed to the ground and three Indians pried the lid clear. And whooped.
The three chiefs came over, their impassive faces lighting up with interest as they saw the contents.
The crate held a dozen Winchester carbines, each one wrapped in oil skin, the preserving grease still slick and sticky on the mechanisms.
Braddock opened the second wagon and hauled a squatter crate loose. It contained ammunition in .44-40 caliber. He picked up a carbine and demonstrated the loading process before passing the weapon to Long Lance. The Sioux held the gun with the same reverence Father Bartholomew had accorded his Bible. He raised it to his shoulder, sighting down the barrel at a pine some thirty feet away. Braddock passed more loaded weapons to the others, then showed them how to work the lever action to pump a fresh cartridge into the breech.
Abruptly, Long Lance whooped a high-pitched cry and opened fire on the pine. He missed, and his face clouded.
‘Here.’ Azul dragged his own Winchester from the saddle sheath. ‘You need to sight and fire easy. See that knot in the bole?’
He squeezed the trigger. The center of the knot was suddenly a dark hole that bled sap from the edges. He levered and fired three times more. Each time another hole appeared in the pine’s trunk, climbing up the gnarled bark in a vertical line.
The Sioux followed his example. Most of their shots continued to fly wild, for they had had little experience of firearms.
It was difficult for any Indian to obtain a rifle or carbine, harder still to buy ammunition. The few firearms they did possess came mostly from dead soldiers: single shot Henry carbines, or breech-loading Springfields. And when the scant supplies of ammunition ran out, the Indians were left with a useless weapon. Those bought from gun-runners like Braddock were usually antiquated pieces as likely to explode in the user’s face as to shoot accurately. No Indian could enter a store to purchase ammunition, and so the tribes had little opportunity to practice, saving their supplies of bullets for the more important business of real fighting.
Consequently the repeating carbines supplied by Braddock were of enormous value to Long Lance and the others. And the chance of the trader supplying even more ammunition was the best insurance policy he could have had against the Sioux turning on him.
The bowl began to fill with powder smoke and the reek of cordite, the heavy cloud laying thick in the still air.
There were around fifty carbines loaded on the wagons, and two dozen crates of shells. In an unusual display of generosity, Braddock offered the Sioux one wagon on which to load the spare guns. He asked Azul to tell the three men still stationed on the small plateau to bring a team up so that the wagon could be taken out.
The half-breed left the gray stallion tethered at the entrance and paced down the tunnel.
Then halted as he stepped out into the sunlight illuminating the grass.
The drivers were all dead. It had been done quick and quiet, any screams lost beneath the thunder of gunfire. Two of the men lay on their backs, the open wounds in their throats still spilling blood over the grass. The third was on his face, a gaping wound showing where a knife had penetrated his ribs and been twisted round to slice the heart and lungs.
Azul spun, racing back down the tunnel.
The light was beginning to fade, filling the basin with lengthening shadows. As the half-breed came out from the gloom of the tunnel the darkness got lit with gunfire.
A Sioux choked on the blood spilling from a ruptured lung, dropping his new-won carbine as he tumbled backwards, his life spouting from between his open lips. Three more braves went down, shot in chests and bellies. The others yelled their rage and confusion, turning their guns on the ridge and the five white-men grouped around the wagons. Azul caught the muzzle flash amongst the pines bordering the eastern ridge and triggered four fast shots at the rimrock.
The hidden guns went on firing as the Sioux scattered, running for their ponies.
‘You lied!’ Long Lance turned his carbine in Azul’s direction. ‘There was a trap.’
‘No!’ The half-breed thudded his shoulder against the gray stallion, forcing the part-Arab back against the protective overhang of the cliff. ‘There was no lie.’
Long Lance snarled, lips curling back from his teeth as his finger tightened on the Winchester’s trigger.
‘No!’ Azul shouted.
The Sioux squeezed down. The carbine bucked in his hands, blasting a shot over the half-breed’s head. Azul powered forwards. His out-thrust arms, the Winchester clutched between them, slammed against Long Lance’s chest. Both men went down, Azul on top.
He twisted his rifle, smashing the barrel against the Sioux chief’s wrist so that Long Lance dropped his hold on the carbine’s trigger. Azul let go his own weapon, hiking his left arm around the Indian’s shoulders to drag him across the clearing to the shelter of the overhang.
‘Why?’ Long Lance fought clear of Azul’s grip. ‘Why did you lie?’
‘I didn’t.’ The half-breed pointed at the rimrock. ‘There’s only two guns up there. I don’t know who they are.’
Long Lance stared upwards, disbelief showing on his face. ‘Braddock’s men,’ he grunted.
Then gasped as a bullet struck Buffalo Man.
It went in on an angle, smashing down through the shaggy fur of the sub-chief’s headdress to penetrate the curve of bone over the forward part of his brain. Buffalo Man staggered, his jaw gaping wide as the slug tore loose from the base of his neck. The horns mounted to either side of the bonnet collapsed inwards, the polished ivory suddenly tainted with crimson. A curtain of blood fell down over his face and he crumpled slowly to the ground, exposing the gaping exit hole in his neck.
Long Lance fought free of Azul’s grip, racing across the clearing to his friend.
Braddock and his men were running for their horses, the trader shouting orders. Mort got mounted and grabbed for the lead rein of one of the mustangs. One loaded with gold. A bullet took him through the belly, bursting out behind so that it scored a bloody line down his horse’s rump. The animal bucked, screaming. Mort fell clear, rolling on the bloodstained grass with both hands pressed against the hole in his stomach. A Sioux finished him off, pumping three shots into his chest at close range before the hidden riflemen blew the Indian’s skull into tatters.
‘Jesus! Get the goddam gold!’ Braddock swung astride his own mount, stooping to pick up the rein Mort had dropped. ‘Get the hell outta here!’
He took off at a gallop as Jace seized the second mustang and followed him down the tunnel.
Azul ducked clear of their thundering passage. He lifted into the saddle, staring over the basin.
Confusion reigned. The Sioux were mounting up, alternating their fire between the ridge and the two white men still exposed in the basin. Cole was firing back at the nearest targets as he fought his way to his own horse. Azul saw a bullet go through the man’s shoulder. Saw the Winchester twist from his hands as he fell down with blood pumping from his back. Then saw nine more shots churn his face and chest to a scarlet pulp that splattered in a wide circle as the man went down on the bloody grass.
Cary had emptied his carbine and now stood with a Colt’s revolver clutched in his right hand, triggering shots at the ridge and the surrounding Indians. A bullet hit his cheek, glancing off the bone so that his face twisted and his pistol discharged into the belly of a mounted warrior. The Sioux groaned and slumped forwards over his pony’s neck. The carbine in his hand went off, the slug hitting Cary in the right thigh. The young gun hand went down on one knee, still firing. Then a bullet entered his back, emerging from his chest in a long spray of scarlet. Suddenly he was hidden amidst a group of horsemen, all turning to point their guns inwards.
When they separated Cary’s body was a ragged stain on the ground.
Azul turned the gray horse’s head towards the tunnel and slammed both heels against the stallion’s flanks.
He galloped down the tunnel of trees, swinging eastwards as he hit the grass of the plateau beyond. He urged the horse clear of the exit trail, moving up the slope into the dense timber. The upwards lift was steep, but the stallion dug hooves into the loamy soil and plunged clear of the pursuing Indians before Long Lance and Broken Knife had time to group their warriors. Azul reached the upper rim and paused, backing the horse behind the trunk of a massive pine.
He watched as the Sioux began to emerge from the tunnel of trees. The two remaining chiefs had obviously decided to cut their losses and make capital of their gains, for the first Indians to show came out cautiously, followed by the wagon Braddock had left. It was loaded high with crates, and the Sioux took it straight across the plateau, moving towards the pass with warriors handling the vehicle down to where the nervous teams were waiting. They hitched up four horses and took the wagon off at a fast trot, the other braves herding the remaining animals behind.
Azul waited until they were gone down the cut in the hills and then rode back towards the basin, following the upper line of the ridge.
When he reached the section of ground overlooking the bowl he dismounted and began to study the terrain. The rimrock was thick with timber, mostly pines that had shed needles in a thick layer over the bare soil of the higher level. In two places the needles were indented in the shape of a man’s body. Each place was surrounded with empty cartridges. And behind the indentations were the marks of two horses.
Hoof-prints led away to the east. They were dug in deep at first, the pine needles scattered behind. As though two men had ridden away in a hurry. Azul trailed them.
After a while the prints got shallower as the riders slowed down, but they still pointed eastwards towards the edge of the hills overlooking the valley.
Full dark descended on the hills, the sun fading behind the ridge and the big moon shining bright from the east side. Azul dismounted, leading the gray stallion as he scanned the ground, intent on finding the men who had fouled the gun trade.
The woodland got dark, the lofty pines filtering only a little of the moon’s light through the looming branches. An owl swung softly across the half-breed’s path, and from ahead a nightjar screeched, the raucous cry answered by a fluttering of wings as birds shifted from their resting places.
Azul paused, listening to the sounds. By now he was on the far side of the hills, close enough to the eastern slope that it would be possible to see Braddock’s trading post.
He peered through the timber. And saw the faint glow of a fire.
He wound the reins of the gray stallion’s bridle around an overhanging branch and slid the Winchester clear of the saddle boot. His moccasins made no sound as he moved forwards, silent as a stalking cat.
The ground slanted down in a wide swathe ahead, the pines giving way to smaller trees: cedar and aspen, and scrubby oaks. The firelight was coming from a grove of half-grown cedar, the branches low enough to hide most of the light. Two horses were tethered to one side of the clearing and two men were outlined by the glow.
One was big. Very big, so that his shoulders blocked out a portion of the fire’s light as he plucked chunks of meat from the pot hung over the embers. The other was small, his right arm folded tight against his chest.
Azul recognized the two men he had fought in the trading post: the giant Zeb, and the mute Joe.
Zeb was talking through mouthfuls of meat. His laughter spread fragments over the flames so that the fire spluttered and flared as gobs of fat landed on the burning twigs.
‘We sure taught them bastards a lesson. Pity I missed the half-breed. But I reckon the injuns musta killed him by now.’
Joe grunted and nodded his agreement.
Azul stepped clear of the trees. The sound of the Winchester’s hammer going back made a stark counterpoint to the crackling of the fire and Zeb’s chewing.
Neither man heard him until he stepped out into the clearing and said: ‘No. I’m alive.’
Both men twisted round. A half-chewed chunk of meat fell from Zeb’s mouth, tangling in his beard. Joe grunted, reaching sideways for the Winchester leant against the sapling beside him.
Azul fired once.
The bullet took the mute in the throat, cutting off his voice and his life forever. It went in directly above the Adam’s apple, churning through the muscle and the softer tissue behind to emerge in a ragged welter of blood and flayed skin from the back of his neck. Joe pitched backwards, twin columns of scarlet pumping from both sides of his neck. They sizzled as they hit the fire, and the mute gargled as his hair began to burn.
Azul swung the rifle round and triggered a second shot.
Zeb was lifting to his feet, right hand plucking at the pistol holstered around his spreading waist. The .44-40 slug caught him as he rose. It entered low down on his gut, so that he screamed and doubled over, the lead slug punching a hole just above his groin before ricochetting off the pelvic girdle to exit through his left side.
He landed full length, but his strength was enough that he was still able to draw the Colt and cock the hammer. Azul fired again. The bullet shattered Zeb’s wrist, splintering the radius and ulna so that the giant’s hand hung limp. Like a glove puppet empty of control.
The Colt dropped into the fire. Zeb grunted and stretched his left hand towards the gun. The shells, heated by the flames, began to detonate of their own accord. Zeb screamed again as the cylinder burst, plastering his good hand with over-heated metal. He rolled back, pressing his hand against his chest. The skin was blackened, red weals showing where the exploding gun had volleyed fragments of steel through the palm.
He stared at the half-breed, eyes wide open and mouth spread in a soundless shriek. Azul triggered the Winchester. The bullet went in through the blackened, gaping teeth. It ploughed through the soft membrane of the rearward throat and came out through the cord of the spine. Zeb’s head jerked back, spreading the throat wound wider so that a column of blood fountained high in the night air, fountaining over the giant’s chest as he pitched over, joining the pulsing of crimson from his abdomen. His feet drummed a brief tattoo against the ground and then he was still.
Joe was down on his face, hands slapping at the burning hair and the hole in his neck.
Azul fired again.
The bullet hit the mute in the chest. High up on the left side as Joe rolled over. It ruptured the heart and deflected off the ribcage to lodge in the right lung. Joe’s body arched up, head and heels supporting the torso. His fingers scrabbled in the dirt as blood pumped from his mouth and chest and throat. Then he slumped still as his companion.
His hair burned in the fire.
Azul moved out front the trees and kicked the fire dead. The air was thick with the stink of scorched flesh and hair. He got up on his horse and rode away down the ridge.
It was full night by now, with clouds drifting in from the west to shade the face of the moon. The valley was dark. Except for the southern end, where the two rivers joined.
Down there, at the apex of the joindure, where Braddock’s trading post was located, there was light.
It came mostly from the inside of the post, but also from the outside, where fires had been lit. The glow reflected a distant vision of horsemen surrounding the place. Something was burning against the walls. Azul thought it was Bartholomew’s wagon, but at that distance he couldn’t be sure.
He remembered a saying his father had once taught him, and changed it around to suit his own purpose: ‘In for two hundred dollars, in for two thousand. Or two bars of silver.’
He rode down towards the light.