NOLAN’S REACTION WAS instantaneous. A cavalry command in the Civil War had taught him that on open ground attack was by far the best means of defense. Now he applied the notion with desperate speed.
The Indians were coming in at full gallop, spreading to clear a field of fire as they charged what they thought was easy prey. Nolan looped his reins around the saddle horn, smashed his boots into his horse’s ribs and began to fire the Winchester. He rode headlong at the approaching Comanches, dimly aware of Christie racing alongside.
The Southerner had served his time with Jeb Stuart and there was little he didn’t know about cavalry tactics. His partner’s intention was obvious to him, and he followed Nolan’s lead without a second thought. Triggering his own carbine from the hip, he opened his mouth and split the suddenly noisome air with the old rebel yell.
The charge took the Comanches by surprise. They had expected the whites to falter, most likely turn back to the wagon. To find two screaming riders heading straight at them with guns blazing was an unprecedented move. Three toppled from their pad saddles with bullets through them before they were quite sure what was going on. Then the crazy whites were in amongst them, and two more Indians went down. The madmen charged through, swung their horses around and came back.
The Indians split, one group continuing the initial attack, racing for the wagon, the other turning to face the outriders.
Jack Street used a bullwhip to lash his team to full speed, shouting for Eleanor Dalton to hand him the scattergun stowed beneath the drive seat.
The Comanches closed in as she touched the gun and arrows thudded into the wagon frame. Rifles crackled, but the Indians were unused to the weapons, their aim erratic. The immediate danger was that they would kill one of the horses, dragging the whole team to a stop, and then take their time finishing off the passengers. That thought was uppermost in Jack Street’s mind as he flailed his whip at the panting animals.
‘Fer Chrissakes!’ His voice was a frantic shout, ‘Use the gun.’
Eleanor was familiar with Frontier hardware; any woman living on the Staked Plains had to be. But she was unused to shotguns. Street’s weapon was a double-barreled Meteor 10-gauge, a heavy gun at the best of times. From the seat of a bucking wagon it was doubly difficult to handle. But the choice lay between using the thing or facing death—worse, capture. She hauled the twin hammers back to full cock and forgot her dignity as she lifted one stockinged leg to brace herself against the front board.
A Comanche thundered alongside, fierce eyes glaring from a painted face. Eleanor looked at him and shuddered at the hate she saw. She squeezed the forward trigger.
A sound like thunder exploded around her and she pitched hard against Street as the Meteor’s discharge slammed the gun back into her shoulder. The Indian’s head was obscured by the black powder smoke. When it cleared the head was gone. The body still sat the pony, but where the face had been there was only a ragged stump of gory neck. Insanely, she remembered the old story of the Headless Horseman, and forced back a giggle of hysteria. The mustang kept going, pacing the racing team, but slowly the Indian’s corpse shifted sideways, falling away into the roiling dust.
Another brave rode the corpse into the ground, aiming an arrow at |he wagon horses. Eleanor fired again, shouting incoherently as the heavy gauge shot smashed the pony and its rider sideways in a rolling welter of bloodied limbs.
Man and beast fell directly in the path of the following riders, and three Comanches hit the bodies at full gallop. The ponies went down screaming, pitching the Indians over their heads to crash heavily onto the sand. Only one stood up.
Another warrior moved in from the side and Jack Street swung the bullwhip. The weighted lash curled around the man’s face, lacerating his cheeks before the wagon’s momentum pulled him off balance. His pony, sensing the shift in weight, veered to the side and the Comanche was hauled clear. He screamed as the whip tightened around his face and throat, dragging his bouncing body along behind the wagon. Then Street dropped the whip and the Indian rolled over in the dust, his tongue protruding black from between his teeth. Street dragged an ageing Navy Colt from his belt and fired methodically into the Comanches still galloping alongside.
‘Shells!’ Eleanor screamed. ‘Where are the shells?’
‘Box,’ Street shouted back, steering one-handed, ‘by yore feet.’
She bent over, reaching for the wooden container nailed to the boards.
It was a lucky move. For her. It meant that the arrow aimed in her direction flew close over her back. Instead of pinning her left arm to her side, it hit Jack Street below his left armpit. He screamed and dropped the Navy Colt, scrabbling at the feathered shaft sticking out from between his ribs. The guide reins were wound around his wrist, and when his arm went limp, the team yanked the leathers tight, dragging his hand forwards.
He moaned and tried to pull the arrow clear, then gave up and concentrated on guiding the team with his good hand.
A quarter mile away now, Nolan and Christie faced six Indians. Their double charge had dropped eight Comanches, but now the element of surprise was gone and they were into a running fight. Their horses were faster than the stocky mustangs, but lacked the staying power of the wiry ponies. Their carbines were empty and they were moving too fast, fighting too hard, to chance reloading. The Colts they used were inaccurate at anything other than pointblank range, so they concentrated on staying ahead of the whooping braves.
Christie’s animal already sported three arrows in its rump and side, but the wounds were not serious enough to slow it. Nolan had a shaft sticking through his left arm and no time to break it off. He was bleeding, but the adrenalin pumping through his bloodstream dulled the pain and he still used his Colt whenever a target showed close enough. He shot two Comanches out of their saddles and swore when the hammer fell on an empty cylinder. A warrior came in from the side, angling a metal-headed lance for a gut thrust. Nolan slapped the pole away and drove his horse into the Indian’s. The heavier animal hit the mustang like a battering ram, and the painted pony careened off, its forelegs folding. It tumbled, rolling over its rider so that his legs were crushed and he screamed as jagged shards of broken bone ripped out through the flesh.
Christie swung his gun like a club, hammering at the Indian, trying to shatter his skull with a stone hatchet. The axe glanced off his shoulder, and he kicked out, slamming his boot against the Comanche’s thigh. The Indian fought to keep his balance and Christie seized the slight advantage. He swung in close, ramming the barrel of the Colt straight into the man’s face. The Indian’s nose shattered and blood drenched his painted chest. Instinctively, he hauled his pony away, hit a following rider, and both went down, Christie screamed the rebel yell again and began to load the Colt at full gallop.
They were slightly ahead of the Indians now, the attackers whittled down to one, who was getting second thoughts about the odds.
Christie grinned, a high-pitched giggle bursting from his lips as he realized that he held the advantage. The Comanche was carrying a Spencer repeater, but his fire was wild, inaccurate. The Southerner, in contrast, was adept with handguns, on foot or on horseback. Swinging sideways in his saddle, he allowed the Comanche to close up, felt a bullet ruffle the horse’s mane, and came upright as the Indian levered a fresh shell into the repeater. He twisted, extending his arm towards the warrior, and fired twice.
The first bullet missed. The second hit the Comanche in the throat. It blew his windpipe away, breaking the vertebrae connecting shoulder blades and skull. Blood spouted from the wound and a whoop died silent on dead lips. The Indian’s head jerked sideways, bouncing against his shoulders like a crazy pendulum. Then it flopped backwards, bobbing behind, and he pitched over and was gone.
Christie urged his horse onwards, bloodlust taking control of his senses. He passed Nolan at full gallop, heading straight for the Comanches chasing the wagon.
The madness communicated itself to the dark man and he drummed his heels against his horse, triggering wild shots at the Indians. None hit and he rammed the gun back into the holster, transferring his grip to the Winchester. He grasped the carbine in both hands, holding the barrel and swinging the weapon like a club. Before the Indians knew what was happening, the two men were in amongst them.
Christie emptied his revolver, killing three braves. Nolan clubbed two more from their ponies. Then the woman emptied both barrels of the Meteor into the attackers. The buckshot spread in a diamond pattern, tearing through hide war shields, skin, and bone with equal indifference. One brave lifted from his mount, most of his chest torn away by the shot, three more clutched shattered limbs and ravaged eyes. For a moment, they fell back, letting the wagon and the outriders pull ahead.
By now the team was tiring, and both Nolan’s and Christie’s horses were blowing hard.
The mustangs were tougher, used to the punishment of the war trail, and began to close up.
Nine Indians remained, sufficient to finish the running battle. Jack Street was barely conscious, the arrow gouging a widening hole as his arm jerked and tugged on the reins of the wagon. Nolan could feel a creeping numbness stiffen his left arm, and blood was draining from Christie’s horse as the flesh wounds pumped vital energy over its flanks. Only Eleanor Dalton remained unharmed and unhampered. Her bonnet was gone, and her blonde hair streamed in the wind rush. Her face was smudged with dust and tears and spattered blood, but a fierce smile showed on her lips as she shoved a new load into the scattergun. It was almost as though she had begun to enjoy the combat.
‘How far to the ranch?’
Nolan bellowed above the thunder of hooves and savage screams. He knew they couldn’t last much longer.
‘We’re close,’ Eleanor shrieked. ‘If they hear the guns, Nat’ll send men out.’
‘He better,’ grunted Nolan, looking back at the Indians. ‘We ain’t gonna last much longer.’
Jack Street used the lull to draw a knife. He hacked through the reins, freeing his damaged arm. As he transferred the leathers to his right hand the wagon lurched, bucking as it passed over a half-hidden rock. Street lost his balance, screamed once, and tumbled clear. Panicked, the team raced on out of control. Christie saw it happen, and swung his horse close to the rig. The animal was beginning to flag, and the Southerner coaxed its last reserves of energy to one final spurt. He forgot about Street as he reached across, grabbing the seat. Then he hauled clear of his mount, swinging on board the hurtling wagon. He snatched the loose reins and concentrated on holding the team to its mad gallop.
Street hit the ground and cartwheeled over. Stunned by the fall, and weakened by the arrow, he saw dimly that the wagon was moving fast away from him. Painfully, he climbed to his feet. And saw the Comanches.
In moments of extreme stress the human body resorts automatically to a biochemical protective system. Large quantities of adrenalin are pumped through the bloodstream, dulling pain and speeding reflexes to an abnormal degree. The adrenalin produces an effect that seems to slow time, to reduce the action around the subject to slow motion.
That effect took hold of Jack Street.
He saw the Comanches riding straight at him. He watched one of them fire a lever-action Henry, and grinned as the shot flew wide. He watched another aim a bow, and glanced down as the arrow hit him in the stomach. Then he watched two more braves level war lances at him—and wondered idly which would reach him first. He was vaguely surprised that it was the smaller of the two mustangs that covered the ground fastest, and amazed that he felt no pain when the lance went in.
It hit dead center of his stomach, just above the buckle of his leather belt. The sharp stone tip punctured soft skin, drove on through flesh and intestines, and ripped out through his left kidney. The Comanche charged past, spinning Street around, and dragged the lance free. The second brave struck as the driver was turning. His lance tore into Street’s ribs, cut through a lung, and grated on his spinal column. Street was dead, but he didn’t know it. Instead, he watched the Indians go by, then turned back to watch the main group. A third brave swung a war club that ripped half the driver’s scalp clear of his skull. Another planted an arrow in his back, and a third ended the affair with a Springfield carbine he had bought from Samuel Graves. The bullet hit Jack Street at pointblank range, blew most of his chest out, and knocked him five feet sideways. He sprawled on the sand, oblivious of the hooves crushing his body, and died.
His last thought was that he hadn’t been paid for his driving.
As he went down for the last time, Nolan glanced back, and grinned. The Indians were slowing, wheeling away to let the wagon outdistance them. They had had enough, and—in typical Comanche fashion—were giving up to cut their losses. He let his own horse slow as Christie brought the wagon team back to control and grinned at the woman.
Up ahead a wooden sign stuck out of the ground. It was a ten-foot pine pole with a section of planking nailed to the top. Burned into the planking was a big letter D with three horizontal lines trailing behind the capital: it was the Flying D brand.
‘I guess,’ he shouted, ‘that we made it.’
In the Comanche village, the Comancheros were getting impatient. Iron Knife was still absent and the two braves posted outside the entrance to the lodge allowed no-one to leave. Food had been brought to them, and blankets, but the tent was crowded and hot and beginning to smell bad. They had been cooped up all night and most of the following day, and Graves could sense the tension mounting amongst his pistoleros.
There was a whole lot of activity going on around the camp, but the Comancheros couldn’t see what it was about, Instead, they heard a good deal of shouting, the reverberation of skin drums, the shriller clatter of shell rattles and the thin piping of bone flutes.
It was an eerie, ominous feeling to be conscious of the activity without knowing what it was about, and Graves didn’t like it.
He liked it even less when Iron Knife appeared. The Comanche war chief was dressed in a breech-clout and feathered bonnet, the tails hanging nearly to his feet. There was no paint on his face, so the expression of anger was clearly visible.
‘You bring only a few guns.’ He spoke without preamble. ‘Where others?’
Graves came to his feet, choosing his words carefully. He was treading a dangerous tightrope and he knew it: one word from Iron Knife and he was dead.
‘They’re good guns,’ he said slowly, ‘the kind you wanted. All repeaters.’
‘Where others?’ Iron Knife interrupted.
‘Close,’ said Graves hurriedly. ‘I can show you where,’
‘No.’ Iron Knife shook his head. ‘You stay here. The old one will show me.’
Paco swallowed hard as he realized the Comanche referred to him. He glanced at El Negro, waiting for Graves to offer some kind of lead. The renegade shrugged, keeping his dark face expressionless.
‘You’ll need men to handle the wagon. I can take my men back to the cache, then you can drive the guns back here.’
Iron Knife smiled. On his face it was an unnerving expression.
‘No.’ He spoke slowly, still smiling. ‘You stay. The old one and six others will handle the guns.’
He pointed at the six pistoleros. One, a good-looking rubio of no more than eighteen years, lost his nerve. Mouthing an incoherent curse, he reached for his gun. As it lifted from the holster Iron Knife’s right hand came up above his shoulder, swinging down with a fierce, forwards movement. The hatchet he carried flew from his grip, turning over once. It was a steel-headed axe—Graves recognized the design as one he had sold to the Comanches—and it split the pistolero’s face like a ripe plum. The Colt dropped unused from the youngster’s fingers, and he stood for a moment with the two halves of his shattered head spilling blood over his boots. Then he fell down.
‘The old one and five others,’ said Iron Knife calmly.
He stepped forwards, reaching down to tug the axe free. Behind him, four warriors crowded into the tepee with rifles covering the Comancheros.
‘Wait here,’ ordered the chief, ‘we leave soon.’
When he returned he was in full paint, carrying the Winchester Graves had given him. Paco and the remaining pistoleros followed him to the wagons. They were allowed to keep their weapons, but the Indians surrounding them made it obvious that any attempt to escape would be useless. Reluctantly, the Comancheros mounted up and rode out.
They reached the mesa with sunset drawing close, and Paco pointed to the spot where they had buried the guns.
‘Dig,’ Iron Knife ordered.
Grumbling, the pistoleros took spades from the wagon and began to shift dirt. They moved the topsoil and Paco gasped. The sound was halfway between surprise and fear: the hidden crates were gone. Urgently, the Mexicans cleared more dirt, refusing to admit the inevitable. They scooped a trench over twelve inches deep before Paco turned to the Indians.
‘Jefe,’ he said quietly, ‘they are gone.’
Iron Knife’s face stayed impassive, his cold, black eyes studying the Mexican’s. Paco fidgeted nervously, fingering the rosary at his neck. Then Iron Knife, still staring directly at him, said something in the Comanche tongue. The pistoleros didn’t need a translation to understand what the words meant. They went for their guns.
The Indians were ready. Rifles barked and the Mexicans went down riddled with arrows and gunshot wounds. Paco fell to his knees, mumbling a prayer, his eyes tight shut.
He heard the guns fall silent, smelled the reek of cordite, and opened his eyes.
Iron Knife was smiling. Like a wolf. And his carbine was pointing straight at Paco’s face.
‘Why you lie?’
‘I didn’t!’ Paco’s voice was a terrified howl. He had expected to die: to find himself still alive was more than his nerves could take. ‘I swear it! On my mother’s grave, jefe, I swear the guns were here.’
‘Not now.’
Iron Knife walked his pony close to the Mexican, nudging his chin with the Winchester so that Paco stared up at him.
‘They were here.’ Tears coursed down the old man’s cheeks. ‘We buried them here. They must be here.’
He dropped on all fours scrabbling desperately at the sand, willing the crates to appear.
Iron Knife grunted something and Little Buffalo unshipped a rawhide lariat from his saddle. He swung the loop over Paco’s head, jerking it tight around the grizzled neck. He backed his pony, dragging Paco forward so that he fell face down in the sand, the rawhide digging into his skin. Iron Knife issued more orders, and a brave climbed onto the wagon, slipping the brake.
‘Stand up,’ said Iron Knife, harshly. ‘We go back. Talk with the Black One.’
He turned his pony in the direction of the camp and Paco stood up. Little Buffalo followed the war chief, heeling his mount to a trot that drew the lariat taut behind him. Paco began a stumbling run. It was difficult to keep up: his high- heeled boots were made for riding, not footwork, and the heavy spurs he wore snagged on the rough ground. Every time he fell down the rawhide noose tightened on his windpipe, cutting off his air, and he gagged, choking until Little Buffalo slowed enough for him to draw closer, slackening the lariat.
A revolver still hung at Paco’s waist, but he never thought of using it. His entire concentration was focused solidly on staying upright and alive; the unpleasant possibilities of his future were forgotten in the tortured need to keep moving without choking to death.
By the time they reached the Indian village, Paco’s tongue was hanging out of his mouth and his feet were raw hunks of blistered flesh.
Little Buffalo halted outside the big lodge and dropped the lariat. Paco collapsed, his hands tugging madly at the noose. He had it loosened enough to fill his burning lungs when two braves picked him up and threw him into the tent. He landed on his stomach and lay there, panting like an old, sick dog.
‘What in the hell happened?’ Graves’ voice was urgent. ‘Paco! Where are the others?’
‘Dead.’ The Mexican had trouble shaping the words. ‘All dead.’
‘Why fer Chrissakes?’ Graves shook the old man. ‘What went on out there?’
‘Gone,’ Paco mumbled. ‘Guns gone.’
‘Oh, sweet Jesus!’ Graves was scared now. ‘Tell me.’
Hernando slopped water into Paco’s wide-opened mouth, his lips moving in a silent prayer. Graves waited until Paco had swallowed, then cradled his shoulders, pulling the noose clear of his neck.
‘What happened, Paco?’
‘We got to the mesa.’ Paco spoke slowly, forming the words carefully around a swollen tongue. ‘And began to dig. The guns weren’t there. They were gone. Iron Knife told his men to kill the others. They walked me back.’
‘They can’t be gone!’ Graves refused to believe it.
‘They are gone, jefe.’ Paco swallowed more water. ‘Like the desert ate them up.’
‘Fuck!’ Graves snarled. ‘Where the hell does that leave us?’
‘Dead.’ John Bear answered the question. ‘Iron Knife will kill us for cheating him. Slowly.’
He hunkered down, watching Paco with stoic indifference, knowing what he could expect and accepting the inevitability of painful death. The others, lacking his Indian calm, began to talk escape. They had five sidearms and three knives between them; Graves carried a hideaway derringer in his boot, but he was keeping that to himself. And there was still a slim chance he could talk his way out.
He got an opportunity to try when Iron Knife reappeared. ‘You lie to me, Black One,’ said the Comanche. ‘There were no guns.’
Graves thought fast. ‘We buried ’em there. If they ain’t in the ground, it has to be because someone found ’em.’
‘There were no guns,’ repeated Iron Knife.
‘I can get more.’ Graves talked as fast as he was thinking. ‘I’ll go back to Quintana and bring you more.’
‘If you go, why you come back?’ Iron Knife looked at the negro with contempt.
‘Keep the others,’ said Graves, fast. ‘Hold them as hostages.’
John Bear spat in disgust, and Iron Knife’s lips curled in a sneer.
‘Man who give friends up so easy is worth nothing.’ His hand made a chopping gesture: dismissal. ‘Your word not mean much, Black One.’
‘The gold,’ faltered Graves, ‘you keep half. Pay me the rest when I come back with the guns.’
Iron Knife snorted. ‘We only get half the guns. Why give you any gold? Man with gold ride far, not look back.’
The logic was irrefutable and Graves felt his' arguments crumble to nothing. Then the Comanche smiled.
‘He go.’ Paco groaned as he realized that Iron Knife was pointing in his direction. ‘He take message to Quintana: your friends send guns, or you die.’ He laughed, filling the lodge with an ugly sound. ‘Tonight I show you how you die. Tomorrow the old one can go.’
He called something in Comanche and the warriors at his back seized the Comancheros, stripping them of their weapons. The only gun they didn’t find was Graves’ derringer. Then they herded the prisoners from the tent, out to the center of the village.
The camp was built in a series of circles, the tepees growing larger and brighter painted the closer they got to the center. There, an open space about one hundred yards across was illuminated by numerous fires. The flames shone on row after row of painted faces, all turned excitedly towards the prisoners. Pushed on by their guards, Graves and his men stumbled through the massed ranks of the Indians, Enrico and Hernando supporting the limping Paco between them. They stopped when they saw the scaffolds.
Lodge poles, each one about fifteen feet high, were imbedded in the sand to form two tripods. They were in clear sight of all the Comanches, and two big fires burned close by.
John Bear sucked in his breath, knowing what was coming.
Iron Knife grunted and Paco fell to the ground as the braves seized Enrico and Hernando, dragging them towards the poles. The Mexicans struggled, yelling, as rawhide was lashed tight around their wrists and slung over the apex of both scaffolds. Whooping warriors tugged eagerly on the hide ropes, hauling the renegades off the ground. When the rawhides were fastened down, the two men dangled a good four feet up in the air. More Indians piled wood and buffalo chips beneath their feet, then Iron Knife nodded and the fires were lit.
The Mexicans screamed as they felt the flames singe their boots. They were not hurting yet, but the anticipation of pain was sufficient to render them near-hysterical, and they twisted, jerking wildly on the ropes. Their contortions served only to swing them back and forth above the licking, red tongues, and gradually their boots and chaps began to smolder. Flickering sparks darted over their legs, the stained leather of their pants blackening as the acrid smell of burning lay heavy on the night air. They seemed to run on the flames, their legs pumping hopelessly as they tried to lift themselves above the pain.
‘Watch carefully, Black One,’ Iron Knife murmured. ‘If the guns do not arrive, you will die slower than this.’
Graves shuddered.
From the ground, close by his feet, Paco looked away from the horrible spectacle, up towards El Negro.
‘Jefe,’ he said quickly, ‘I don’t think your insurance policy paid off.’
From the ridge above the depression containing the camp a lone figure lay belly down on the sand, watching.
Matthew Gunn had circled round after killing the three Comanches, hiding his back trail. The signs he had read told him he was close enough to the Comanche village to risk a minor detour and check out the size of the gathering. Like the other sign, it confirmed his first impression: there were more horse warriors collected there than the Staked Plains had seen in years. The presence of the wagons and the Mexicans told him where the guns he had shifted came from, and he grinned as he guessed the two men dancing on the fires were being tortured as a result of his actions, Their suffering was no concern of his, though he was grateful for the diversion it created, holding the Comanches to the camp.
The screams echoed as he moved silently back to his horse, reaching a new pitch of frenzy.
‘That’s one problem about Indian trading,’ he grinned. ‘Louse up a deal and things can get hot.’