CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Before he got into a fight, an Apache always figured the odds, and that meant the numbers were in his favor. There were seven of them, all young bucks. They’d lost warriors in the High Time scrap and the older men had headed back to the San Carlos with the captured women and horses. Apart from some rifle cartridges, a ship’s telescope, and a few shiny trinkets, the six youngest had seen little of the spoils and had decided to strike out on their own for one last stab at plunder and glory.
The Apaches sat their horses just out of rifle range and one of them scanned Dan Caine and the others with the telescope. What he saw encouraged him. Two old men, a boy, and three adult males, one of them a Kiowa judging by his braids, and a golden-haired woman who would bring many nights of pleasure to any young man’s wickiup.
The Apaches discussed whether or not an attack would be a fitting end to the raid. They would return to the San Carlos with horses and a woman and the older men would nod and smile and say they did well, and they would surely tell them that they were mighty warriors, brave of heart and strong of limb.
But the Kiowa gave them pause, a member of a tribe that produced first-rate fighting men who did not know the meaning of fear. But then the youngest of them spoke up, a sixteen-year-old named Bodaway, who had already taken three scalps in Mexico. He said that the Kiowa wore white man’s clothing and had no doubt inherited their weaknesses and womanish fears.
“The wolf is gone,” Bodaway said. “Only the sheep is left.”
The others listened, then praised the young man’s wisdom. Then all agreed they should attack, kill the men, and then tarry for a while to enjoy the woman before riding north again.
But they’d very soon realize that they’d made a devastating, gut-wrenching mistake.
The Apaches were correct in their assessment of the Kiowa . . . but their opinion of the fighting prowess of the white man was way wide of the mark. The young warriors had never met a top ranked Texas drawfighter before . . . they were about to meet one now.
* * *
Dan Caine watched the Apaches shake out line-abreast, each armed with a Winchester. “Get ready. They’re coming right at us,” he said.
“Fools, damned fools,” Clint Cooley said. He stepped forward and waved a hand at the Indians. “Get the hell away from here.”
The young braves were puzzled by that and heads turned as they discussed the white man’s strange behavior. But they showed no inclination to leave.
Cooley said, “They won’t listen. At that age, white or red, they never do.” Then, “Dan, here with me. Holt, on my right, step wide. Fish, do the same on my left.” After the men deployed, he said, “Kiowa, will you fight?” The Indian shook his head. “Then step clear, damn you,” Cooley said. After a quick glance at the Apaches he said, “Miss Sweet you stand back there with Massey. You’ll be our last line of defense.”
“Wait,” the newspaperman said. He reached into his pocket and produced a stub of pencil. “Now I’ll find out if the pen really is mightier than the sword.”
“Sharpen it good, Cornelius,” Dan said, managing a grin.
“They’re coming,” Cooley said. “The rest of you stay where you are. Holt, Fish, you’ll have time for one shot, maybe two. Make them count. Dan, back my play.” The gambler stepped forward a couple of yards just as the Apaches charged.
Behind him the inexperienced Holt fired and missed. Fish held his fire and Dan drew his fire-scorched Colt from the waistband and waited.
Even riding tired horses, the Apaches could cover the hundred yards between them and the vigilantes in about eight seconds. But most of them were destined never to make it.
Thirty yards . . . Cooley drew his revolvers.
Twenty yards . . . he waited.
Ten yards . . . he opened fire with amazing speed and accuracy, displaying a gun-handling dexterity possessed by perhaps one man in a thousand. The British Bulldogs barked and bucked in his fists and his .44 bullets tore the center out of the Apache charge. In the space of a few terrifying moments, Cooley killed three Apaches, wounded another, and dropped two horses. Still at the gallop, the surviving Indians instinctively swung away from Cooley’s murderous fire and immediately ran into a barrage of bullets from Dan, Fish Lee, and Holt Peters. After the battle it could not be determined which of the three scored hits, but two more young Apaches were shot and tasted dust. Five of the warriors were now dead and a sixth was badly wounded and out of the fight, slumped over the neck of his frightened horse carrying him north.
It was enough.
The two surviving Apaches galloped through the camp and one of them, unharmed and with his rifle held out like a pistol, took a spite shot at Massey. There was a dong! sound and the old newspaperman fell like a puppet that just had its strings cut. Estella Sweet fired at the fleeing Indian and missed. She tried a second shot when the brave wheeled his pinto around, raised his rifle over his head, and yipped his defiance. She missed again, but the bullet cracked the air close enough to the Apache to scare him because he turned tail and fled.
Estella took a knee beside Massey. The man was ashen, and he had difficulty breathing. She raised his head to her lap and whispered, “Cornelius, where are you hit?”
“Chest, I . . . I think,” Massey said. “I can’t catch my breath.” Then, “I guess the sword is mightier than the pen, huh?”
Estella spread the lapels of the old man’s frockcoat. She was puzzled. “I don’t see any blood.”
“There must be blood.” Massey gasped. “I’m shot through and through.”
The others stood around Estella, and a circle of solemn faces watched the girl put her hands under Massey’s coat.
“Be brave, old fellow,” Fish Lee said. “Die game.” He wiped his eyes with a huge yellow bandana.
“I’m trying, Fish,” Massey said. “But it ain’t easy.”
“You’re not dying, Cornelius,” Estella said. “At least not today. Now sit up and take a few deep breaths.”
“How the hell can I take deep breaths when I’m breathing my last?” Massey said.
“Dan, Fish, help him sit,” the girl said. “Is the Kiowa looking out for Apaches?”
“Those two won’t be back,” Dan said. “I reckon they’re already lighting a shuck for the San Carlos.”
After much groaning and grim warnings from Massey about his imminent demise, Dan and Fish Lee eased the man into a sitting position.
Immediately, Estella brandished a silver coin under the newspaperman’s nose. “You’re not dying,” she said. “The bullet hit this . . . whatever it is.”
“Let me see that,” Dan said.
He examined the coin, silver, with each side milled off and then engraved. On one side were the letters DG with a rude cross underneath and on the reverse, Sabine Pass/ Sept 8th/1862.
Clint Cooley fed stubby .44 cartridges into one of his revolvers as he looked over Dan’s shoulder and said, “What kind of coin is that, newspaperman?”
“It was a peso coin, but it isn’t any longer. It’s a medal given to me by General Braxton Bragg’s own hand for helping keep the Yankees out of the Sabine Pass. That’s down Jefferson County way for those of you who don’t know.”
“It saved your life, Cornelius,” Dan said.
“Yeah, it did, that and an underpowered cartridge,” Cooley said. “Seems the Apaches got their hands on some pretty inferior ammunition.”
Massey took the medal from Dan and said, “It’s got a dent in it.”
“The bullet hit hard enough to take your wind,” Cooley said. “One time I had a cigar case save my life like that, stopped a ball from a Dragoon Colt.”
“Then we’re two of a kind,” Massey said.
“No, we’re not,” Cooley said.
“How come you never told us you were a Johnny Reb?” Dan said.
“Because I don’t tell folks my story; I tell folks other people’s stories,” Massey said. “Estella, there’s three pints of whiskey in my saddlebags. Bring me the one that’s already opened. I’ve been all shot to pieces and I need a drink.”
“We all need a drink,” Dan said.
“Then help yourselves,” Massey said. “You deserve it, every damn one of you.”
* * *
Clint Cooley drew rein and stared down at the scattered Apache bodies. He shook his head and said to Dan Caine, “I killed boys, Dan, half-grown boys.”
“An Apache boy can kill you just as dead as any man,” Dan said. He dismounted, equipped himself with a better Colt and a gunbelt and holster.
“I know that, but it sure doesn’t make it any easier,” the gambler said.
Massey, half drunk, his lined face ashen, overheard Cooley and said, “Among the Apache there are no boys, Cooley. Their childhood is both brief and endangered. Yes, they die like children but they fight like warriors. It’s the Indian way, a wrong way maybe, but it’s their way.” He managed a wan smile. “Just don’t notch your guns, huh?”
“Massey, only a tinhorn or a wannabe notches his gun,” Cooley said. “And I wouldn’t notch my gun to remind myself that I’d killed boys.”
“I know that,” the old newspaperman said. “Please forgive my poor attempt at a joke.”
* * *
The Kiowa was gone most of the remainder of the day, and he returned when the sun’s lemon glare gave way to the lilac shades of evening. A rising wind ruffled the prairie grass and bore the scent of evening primrose and marigold. “Still due south,” the Kiowa said without any kind of greeting. “They will be in Mexico before us.”
“How long before us?” Dan said.
“Three days, maybe four,” the Kiowa said.
Clint Cooley stood in his stirrups and for a long time stared at the vast rolling country ahead of him.
“What do you see, Clint?” Dan Caine said.
“A whole lot of nothing,” the gambler said.
Then, surprising everybody, Estella Sweet said, “Clay Kyle, damn you. Damn you to hell.”