CHAPTER ONE

 

The six-man Kiowa scouting party came down on the Manning ranch like a wolf on the fold.

Roy Manning and his younger brother, Hal, had been about to go looking for a couple of strays. They’d just ridden out of the barn when Hal got an arrow through the throat. He made a gurgling sound and clutched his neck with both hands. Blood spurted between his fingers, and his horse broke into a run, throwing Hal’s body off about twenty yards away.

A ball from an 1866 Henry Yellow Boy blew a hole in Roy’s heart, and he pitched from the saddle, dead before he hit the dirt.

Two of the Kiowa warriors jumped from their horses and drew their knives. One cut away Roy’s scalp while the other was busy stripping Hal to remove his genitals.

The other four warriors had already stormed into the house, where Sue Manning was trying to hide her son and two young daughters. A warrior knocked her to the floor with one blow, while the other three dealt with the screaming children. All the surviving Mannings were dragged outside.

They killed the boy first, then held Sue while they raped her daughters. She’d fainted long before they got to her.

When the warriors rode away from the ranch, no one was left alive. And in that, they were lucky. The scouting party, steeped in blood, headed northeast, toward the road where the stage from Wichita would be heading for Wolf Creek.

***

The woman who called herself Cora Sloane wasn’t impressed with her fellow passengers on the Wolf Creek stage.

Whenever the swaying coach hit a bump in the road, which was all too often, Lester Weatherby, a talkative whiskey drummer from St. Louis, would deliberately bounce against her and try to collide with her bosom. He was a small, unprepossessing man, and when he wasn’t bouncing around, he tried to ingratiate himself with Cora, which only irritated her. She found herself wishing that the stage door would flop open and Weatherby would fall out. So far it hadn’t happened.

Cora wished she were sharing the seat with one of the other passengers—though, on second thought, not the one who sat across from her. John Hix said he was Wolf Creek’s barber. He looked as if a good puff of wind would blow him away, but something about his eyes bothered Cora. They were empty as the prairie sky, but there was a kind of feral heat in them that reminded her of a coyote she’d seen once as it tore into a couple of chickens. Hix had told Cora that he’d been out of town on business, though he hadn’t said where he’d been or why—the plain implication being that whatever business it was, it was certainly none of hers.

Cora had never been to Wolf Creek. She’d seen an advertisement in a newspaper that said the town was looking for a school teacher, and she’d written a letter to apply for the job. To her surprise, she’d been accepted—she’d packed at once and left the hotel in Wichita where she was staying. She didn’t like to remain in one place for too long, but Wolf Creek was small and far enough away from her home to be safe. Or so she hoped.

The most intriguing passenger was the man beside Hix. He appeared to be in his late forties, though his shaggy hair was still dark and untouched by gray. He’d introduced himself politely to Cora and the other passengers as Dave Benteen and explained that he was going to Wolf Creek to set up as the town’s gunsmith. An unnamed friend had helped him purchase a store where he’d be working. His weathered face showed the scars of past battles, and Cora wondered what they might have been. His haunted eyes gave him the look of someone with secrets.

Cora had seen that look in her own eyes in the mirror, and she’d had to learn to smile with her eyes as well as her mouth in order to hide it.

She reached into the reticule at her feet for the copy of Mister Hawthorne’s Twice-Told Tales that she’d put there before leaving, in the hope that she might read some of it along the way. The coach was rocking so much, however, that she hadn’t tried to read for fear that she might become sick. Now the road seemed a bit smoother, and she thought she might be able to pass some time by dipping into one of the tales. She wasn’t always sure that she grasped Hawthorne’s meaning, but the woman fleeing her terrible past in “The Hollow of the Three Hills” was someone Cora could sympathize with all too easily.

“I see that you’re a reader, ma’am,” Dave Benteen said as she opened the book.

“I am a teacher, sir, and teachers read. Do gunsmiths?”

Benteen grinned. “I’ve been known to crack a book now and again, though my taste runs more to Mister Poe’s tales than to Hawthorne’s.”

Cora gave him a demure look over the top of her glasses. “Mister Poe’s work is a bit too morbid and gruesome for me, and while Mister Hawthorne does indeed look on the dark side of things, he does so without excess.”

She opened her book to end the conversation, but she found that she was still unable to read. Even on the smooth road the coach was swaying too much for that. She closed the book with a sigh and was about to replace it in the reticule when she heard a distant scream so harsh and piercing that it rivaled anything in the works of Mister Poe.

She looked out the side window and saw six Indian warriors riding toward the coach. They seemed in no special hurry, as if they knew the stage couldn’t possibly outrun them. They rode as if they were one with their mounts. Cora had never seen anything like it.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Weatherby said. He seemed to shrink within himself at the sight, and his face turned pasty white as if he might be ill.

The coach lurched forward, and Cora heard the driver slap the reins and yell encouragement to the horses.

“They aren’t coming to welcome us to Wolf Creek,” Benteen said, as the coach picked up speed. He spoke as calmly as if he were taking tea in the family parlor. “You have a gun, Hix?”

Hix was as imperturbable as Benteen. He shook his head and said, “I prefer other weapons.”

Benteen didn’t ask what those might be. He said, “But you can shoot.”

Hix hesitated for a moment, as if considering his answer. “Of course,” Hix replied. “If my life depends on it, I reckon I can.”

“Good.”

Like Cora, Benteen also had a bag at his feet. He bent down to it and came up with two revolvers, both Smith & Wesson Americans. He left a third inside.

“It’s a good thing I brought along a few pistols to sell in my new shop.” Benteen handed one of the guns to Hix. “It’s fully loaded, and I have more cartridges.”

Hix took the pistol and looked at Weatherby, who was now hiding in the floor of the coach.

“I don’t think the drummer will be needing one of these,” Hix said, hefting the gun.

“What about you, ma’am?” Benteen asked Cora.

Cora rummaged through her bag and brought out an old cap-and-ball Navy Colt. It felt heavier and more awkward than she remembered, but she could hold it steady if she used both hands. The coach was bouncing so wildly now that she wondered if it would be possible for her to hit anything

“I can shoot,” she said, and as she spoke, she recalled the smell of burned powder, the dying lawman, her brother’s capture, her own escape. She pushed those hard memories away—that had been another life, and she was starting a new one now. But only if she lived to do so.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” she said.

She heard the crack of the guard’s rifle as he opened fire on the warriors. Their shouts and screams increased, but Cora doubted that any of them had been hit. She turned to the window and looked out over the muzzle of the Colt. She saw only four men, though she’d thought there were more.

“Two on this side now,” Benteen said, as if reading her mind.

Hix looked out his own window, saying nothing. Weatherby whimpered in the floor, out of sight of the windows.

The driver exhorted the horses with shouts and curses. The stage guard fired again, and then the Indians fired as well. One of them had a rifle, and his first shot hit the guard. Cora saw him fall from the coach on Benteen’s side.

An arrow thunked into the side just below Cora’s window, and she drew back. She leaned against the seat, took a deep breath, and told herself that she’d been in worse trouble when the lawmen came for her brother who’d stupidly helped to rob a bank. She’d gotten out of that; she’d get out of this. She let out her breath and turned back to the window.

The stage lurched left and right, the horse running almost out of control. It was all Cora could do to hold herself in the seat, and she wondered how the driver could manage to stay aboard. Well, that wasn’t her worry. Those savages were. She tried to line one up with the gunsight. It was impossible. She pulled the trigger, anyway.

The pistol kicked up and back. The noise of the explosion almost deafened her, and the black powder smoke filled her nose and eyes. She heard other dim explosions as Hix and Benteen began firing.

Cora was never exactly sure just what happened next. She heard a crash and a terrible splintering noise. The coach seemed to leap into the air. It tilted far to the right, and Cora knew that it was going to tip over. She tried to grab hold of something, but there was nothing within reach. She, Hix, Benteen, and Weatherby were all thrown together in a heap, and the coach thudded to earth on its side.

While Cora struggled to free herself from the tangle of bodies, the coach was dragged along the ground. Dust and dirt flew inside. The men cursed and flailed their arms.

Finally the coach stopped moving. Cora was still intertwined with the others. She shoved arms and legs aside and rolled over. She got her feet planted and stood up. She had lost her small hat, and the bun of her hair had come loose, though it was not yet straggling. The leather seat was in front of her. The left side of the coach had now become the top.

Benteen and Hix got unknotted and stood as well, though they had to hunch over because the side of the coach was now the roof. Weatherby lay in a sort of ball and didn’t move. Cora didn’t know if he was dead or merely unconscious, but it didn’t really matter at the moment. What mattered was that she find her pistol. Somehow, Benteen and Hix had held onto theirs.

Cora looked down and saw the pistol on top of her bag, which lay at Benteen’s feet. The gunsmith noticed her glance and managed to pick up the Colt. Cora took it from him. Space in the coach was tight in its new position, and Cora was uncomfortably aware of the closeness of the two men.

“Don’t step on Mister Weatherby,” she said.

Neither Hix nor Benteen responded. Benteen cocked his head as if listening, and Cora began to pay attention to the sounds outside the coach. She heard the jingling of harness and the stomping of the stage’s team.

“They’re taking the horses,” Hix said. “That’s probably what they were after in the first place. Doesn’t mean they won’t come for us, though.”

“We’ll need those horses,” Benteen said.

Hix smiled with his mouth but not his eyes. “Only if we’re alive.”

“I don’t plan to die here,” Benteen said.

“Nor do I,” Cora said.

“Nobody plans to die, ma’am,” Hix said. “It just happens. You might want to save one of those bullets. The Kiowa don’t treat women kindly. They’ll keep you alive a lot longer than you want to be if they get hold of you.”

“I won’t allow them to get hold of me.”

“They don’t care what you’ll allow,” Hix said. “They don’t have rules.”

He sounded to Cora as if he might know what it was like to live without rules. A strange man, for a barber.

Benteen straightened and took a quick look outside, then ducked back in. “Too late. They’ve cut the horses loose and one man’s leading them off. That leaves five men for us to defend ourselves against.”

Cora heard a ripping sound as knives sliced through leather at the back of the coach.

“They’re getting into the boot,” Hix said. “They know we’re trapped in here, so they won’t be in a hurry. They’ll look for anything that might be useful to them in the parcels and mail before they have their fun with us.”

“If there was a strongbox, they have that, too,” Benteen said.

Cora could hardly believe they were talking so calmly. She was about to remark on it when Weatherby groaned and stirred.

“What happened?” he asked, looking around at the cockeyed coach and trying to find a way to sit up.

“Can’t say,” Benteen told him. “We’re in a fine fix, is all I know.”

“The savages?”

“Outside. They’ll be after us before long, just like raccoons rooting a turtle out of the shell.”

Weatherby slumped back down with a whimper and had nothing more to say.

“They are not going to root me out,” Cora said.

“I hope not,” Benteen said, “but they’ll try.”

Cora heard excited talk outside. She couldn’t understand the words, but she knew the Kiowa must have found something of great interest in the luggage. Perhaps they’d opened her trunk and found her dresses and her undergarments. Or something equally titillating.

It was hot and close inside the coach. Cora wished she could open her bodice, but that of course could never happen, not even if she was about to be killed. She thought about her brother. She had warned him so often about his reckless nature—she had never dreamed it would result in her being on the run, and on a stagecoach during an Indian attack as a consequence. He was in prison now, as she assuredly would have been had she not fled in time. Prison was a fate she had once considered terrible beyond words. Now, it seemed almost attractive.

No. She would not let herself think like that. She was still alive, still free, and so she would remain.

“They’ll not have me,” she said.

“You’re right,” Benteen said, though he didn’t sound entirely convinced. “We’ll fight them off.”

He located his bag and opened it, pulling out some cotton wadding. He handed some to both Hix and Cora.

“Stuff that in your ears, quick! Gunfire in here will be deafening.”

They did as he suggested, and he dropped the remaining wadding on Weatherby, who was not so hopeless as to be stupid. He put the wadding in his ears.

It grew quiet outside. Cora kept a close watch on the windows above her head. After a few moments, she saw something move. She recognized it. It was the top of her other hat, the one that had been in her trunk. The hat moved up an inch.

Cora raised her pistol in both hands, and when the hat moved again, she pulled the trigger. The explosion was such that even with the wadding she had a fierce ringing in her ears. The smoke was too thick for her to see the result of her shot, and she did not hear a scream, but she was confident that the bullet she fired had taken off the top of the Indian’s head.

Cora had never killed anyone before, though she was wanted for the murder of a member of the posse that had come for her brother. She had been careful not to hit anyone that day.

She’d thought she’d feel different after taking someone’s life—sad, perhaps, or guilty—but she felt neither of those things. Elation was more like it. One of them was dead. That left four.

As the smoke cleared, she could see something resembling a smile on Hix’s face. Benteen’s lips were moving, but she couldn’t make out the words. He seemed pleased, however.

The Indians would not be pleased, she knew. They would try even harder to get them out of the coach, but as long as they came at them through the windows, she or the others could pick them off.

“Did I kill him?” she asked. Her voice sounded odd to her, and she could barely hear herself.

Benteen plucked the wadding from her right ear. He spoke slowly and formed his words carefully, which helped Cora to understand.

“You might have grazed him,” the gunsmith said. “Gave him a good surprise, for sure. I was surprised, too. I never had a schoolteacher like you.”

Cora took back the wadding and replaced it in her ear. She was not terribly disappointed that the Indian wasn’t dead, as long as he’d been frightened, but she was afraid that she’d revealed too much about herself. Determination was one thing. Pulling the trigger to kill a man was something else. She had hoped to play the role of a modest schoolteacher to keep people from being too interested in her. She’d thought it would be easy, but she hadn’t counted on finding herself in a wrecked stagecoach fighting off Kiowas with three men she’d just met. Two men, really, she thought. Weatherby hardly counted.

“I was frightened,” she said, trying to get back into her role, “and I must have pulled the trigger by accident. I’m glad the poor fellow wasn’t hurt too badly.”

Seeing her lips moving, Hix and Benteen took the wadding out of their ears. Cora repeated what she’d said and hoped they believed her. Hix looked skeptical but made no comment.

“Is there any way we can escape this coach?” Cora asked, once again removing the wadding.

“Not with those Indians out there,” Benteen said.

“I don’t hear them. Could they be gone?”

“No, they couldn’t be gone,” Hix said. “Your ears are still ringing. They’re out there. They’re just cooking up some kind of devilment to get to us.” This time Cora was sure a grin creased his face. “You showed them that it wouldn’t be easy.”

“We can’t stay here forever,” Cora said.

“No,” Benteen said. “We can’t. They know that as well as we do, but they might not be able to wait for long. If they’ve been out raiding, the army knows about it by now. The soldiers will be looking for them. If we can hold out long enough, they might leave.”

“Wouldn’t be like them to give up,” Hix said.

“No,” Benteen admitted. “It wouldn’t.”

They stood in the cramped space, practically breathing in each other’s faces, and Cora wondered if their situation could really be as hopeless as it seemed.

She heard a sound like a smothered thunderclap and at the same instant a bullet tore through the roof of the coach and came so close to her face that she thought she felt the heat of its passing. Splinters flew, narrowly missing her face. One of them stuck in Benteen’s cheek, but he didn’t cry out.

“Damn,” Benteen said. “Begging your pardon ma’am.”

He pulled Cora down on Weatherby. Hix fell atop them. He didn’t beg anyone’s pardon.

“One of them has a rifle,” he said.

Another bullet tore through the coach. Cora heard muffled yells from beneath her and Benteen. Weatherby. He was the safest of them all, but had no courage.

“We need to get the one with the rifle,” Hix said.

Benteen pushed him aside and said, “My pleasure.”

He stood up and thrust himself through the center window on what was now the top of their compartment. He pulled his boots up just in time to avoid a third bullet that cracked into the coach.

Cora heard three muffled shots from above and then a couple of thunks against the coach as arrows struck it. Benteen dropped back down inside.

“Get him?” Hix asked.

“Nope,” Benteen said.

“Damn. Sorry about the language, ma’am.”

“Got his rifle though,” Benteen said. “It won’t be any good to them now.”

Cora found herself wishing that Benteen had been a little better shot and gotten both the Indian and the rifle.

“Was there another rifle?” she asked.

“Didn’t see one,” Benteen said. He paused. “Didn’t really have time to look around.”

Cora had heard that the Kiowa were as deadly with their bows as most men with a rifle, but at least an arrow couldn’t penetrate the coach, not with enough power behind to do anyone any harm. Something else occurred to her.

“Why is this happening?” she asked. “I thought the Kiowa were at peace with us.”

“It’s a shaky kind of peace,” Hix said. “Any offense can set them off—and usually does, whether it’s real or not. Most likely it’s real, though. Things have gotten out of hand between townspeople and the Indians more than once. There’s buffalo hunters around here, too. They don’t get along too well with the Indians, and the Indians hate them.”

“I can understand why,” Cora said, thinking of all the dead animals that the Indians would no longer be able to use for food and clothing.

“Yeah,” Benteen said, “but when the killing starts, understanding doesn’t matter much. Whatever happened, it wasn’t our fault. We weren’t anywhere around. Doesn’t matter to the Kiowa, though. We just happened to be handy. That’s enough for them when something gets them stirred up.”

More arrows thudded into the side of the coach. Cora wondered why the Indians bothered, but only for a few seconds. Then she smelled the smoke.

“Well, that does it,” Benteen said. “We can’t stay in here.”

“First one out’s a dead man,” Hix said. “They’ll be waiting.” He gave the drummer a light kick. “Let’s give ‘em Weatherby. He’s useless.”

“No, no, my God, no,” Weatherby said.

“That wouldn’t be right,” Cora said, though she agreed that Weatherby was useless.

Weatherby whimpered, and Hix toed him again, a little harder this time.

“We won’t give them anybody,” Benteen said. “We’ll wait awhile. The coach is heavy wood. It won’t burn fast, and the smoke won’t get in here for a while. It’ll get thicker outside, though.”

Cora didn’t see how that would help, but Hix seemed to.

“Right,” he said. “We can’t wait too long, though. What’s the plan?”

“When the smoke gets thicker, you and I will pop out the windows and start shooting. Hope to hit somebody.”

“Like a jack-in-the-box, grinning like the devil,” Hix said.

“Let’s hope a pair of devils can do the trick,” Benteen said.

Cora thought it over. Acting demure wasn’t going to help any in this situation. She could go back to that later.

“Three devils,” she said. “I’ll be shooting, too.”

“Now, look, ma’am,” Benteen said, “I don’t think—”

“It doesn’t matter what you think. Three guns are better than two, even if I don’t hit anybody. You know it.”

Benteen looked at Hix. Hix shrugged.

“All right, then,” Benteen said. “Wait until I give the word. Hix will take the right window, and Miss Sloane will take the left. Hix, you know what to do.”

“Sure,” Hix said.

Cora knew there was something they weren’t telling her, but their faces gave nothing away. She didn’t have long to think about it because of in spite of what Benteen had said, smoke had begun to gather in the coach

“Ready?” Benteen said.

Hix and Cora nodded.

“On three,” Benteen said. “One . . . two . . . three!”

The three of them popped up. Fire licked at the bottom of the coach. Cora could see only dimly through the smoke, but it appeared to her that the Indians were far out of range of the pistols. She fired a shot, anyway.

Hix fired, too, but not Benteen. He’d somehow opened the door.

“Look out!” he yelled, and he flipped the door open.

It banged down against the side of the coach, but Hix had moved out of the way. Benteen climbed through the doorway and dropped to the ground. Hix was right behind him. Cora held her fire. She didn’t want to shoot one of them in the back by accident.

The two men ran toward the Kiowa, but not in a straight line. When they were close enough Hix stopped and fired. Benteen kept moving.

One of the Indians dropped from his horse. The others didn’t seem to know what to do. Hix started to run again, and Benteen stopped to take a shot. Another Indian dropped. Benteen was running before the Kiowa hit the ground.

The other two Indians turned their horses’ heads and kicked their heels into their sides. They galloped away, followed by the mounts of the fallen men. Hix and Benteen stopped to watch them go.

Cora was strong and agile enough to pull herself through the doorway of the coach. It wasn’t easy, not with her dress and undergarments hanging on things, but she crawled out and jumped through the smoke. She landed awkwardly and fell, but she was back on her feet before Benteen and Hix got to her.

“Where’s Weatherby?” Benteen asked.

“Still inside, I suppose,” Cora said.

They all looked at the coach and saw Weatherby creeping out. He toppled to the ground, but no one went to help him up.

“What you did was very brave,” Cora said to Benteen and Hix.

“Or insane,” Benteen said.

“It worked,” Hix said. “Indians don’t like to deal with crazy people.”

“You killed two of them,” Cora pointed out.

“They like dealing with crazy people who kill them even less,” Benteen said.

Weatherby removed his coat and used it to beat the flames on the coach.

“He turned out to be good for something, after all,” Hix said. “We should help him. I have a bag in there.”

He and Benteen joined Weatherby, and they soon had the fires extinguished. When they were done, Benteen went around to the unburned side and climbed into the coach. He tossed out the bags, including Cora’s reticule.

“What do we do now?” Cora asked when the fire was out. “The next stage station must be miles away.”

“Six or eight,” Benteen said. “And the last one’s about the same.”

“There’s a ranch a few miles from here,” Hix said. “Two or three. The Manning place. It’s a lot closer than the stage station.”

“I’m not sure I can make it that far,” Weatherby said.

“Up to you,” Benteen said. “Stay here if you want to. Maybe the Kiowa won’t come back.”

“Or maybe they will,” Hix said.

“Couldn’t there be more of them along our way?” Cora asked.

“Sure could,” Benteen said. “We can’t stay here, though. Those two might bring back some others.”

Cora looked back at the coach. The clothing from her trunk was strewn all around.

“I’m going to put my things back in my trunk,” she said.

“You can’t carry that trunk with you.”

“I know that.” Cora was demure again. “It’s not seemly to leave them lying out.”

“No, ma’am, I guess not,” Benteen said. He gave her a look.

Cora ignored him and went back to the coach. She pulled the trunk a good distance from the smoldering hulk and put things in it as best she could. It didn’t take long. The Kiowa had broken the latch, but she closed the trunk anyway.

Benteen helped her stow it in the boot, along with the bags. He’d taken some ammunition and the remaining revolver from his, and Hix and Weatherby had also gotten a few items from theirs.

“Ready now?” Benteen said.

“Yes,” Cora said. “Which way is that ranch you mentioned, Mister Hix?”

Hix pointed back down the road. “We go that way for a while, then cut off to the left. You sure you’re up to a long walk?”

“Certainly,” Cora said, and she set off at a brisk pace.

“I sure never had a schoolteacher like her,” Benteen repeated to Hix.

Cora heard him, but she paid him no mind. She kept on walking, the bottoms of her skirts lightly stirring the dust.