ELEANOR DALTON GREETED her husband like a dutiful wife.
Nolan couldn’t help grinning as he watched her wrap her arms around Nathaniel’s shoulders and kiss him like she meant it. It was a performance worthy of a St. Louis actress, and it pulled the wool firmly over Dalton’s eyes. As firmly as the cuckold’s horns she had put on his head. When the man drew away, one arm still resting over his wife’s back and turned to Nolan, the dark man made the grin look like approval of the reunion.
The woman had spilled the story of their journey in a fast, nervous narrative that didn’t give Dalton a chance to say anything. The only part she left out was how she had been sleeping with Nolan, and now her two escorts were big men around the Flying D.
To hear Eleanor tell it, they had fought their way through the entire Comanche nation.
Her husband shook their hands and thanked them fervently, inviting them to stay as long as they wished.
‘Could be you’d have trouble leavin’ anyway,’ he said. ‘The Comanch’ bin’ actin’ up real bad lately. I lost better’n fifty head, an’ they hit the ranch once.’
‘That so?’ Nolan injected a note of sympathy into his voice. ‘You got any ideas why?’
Dalton shook his head, ushering them into the main building. The Flying D was a solid-looking place built for protection rather than fancy architecture. The ranch-house itself was a squat, one-story structure of stone and plaster, Mexican-style tiles covering the roof. It was built around a central courtyard with a spring supplying drinking water and an inner veranda, shade. The outward-facing walls were plastered white, with narrow windows covering all four approaches and a heavy wood door the only way in. It was like a fort.
Off to the side, a timber bunkhouse flanked a big bam with a smithy set under a lean-to. A tall windmill pumped water to a trough beside the bam, and doubled as a look-out post. The whole set-up was fenced around with heavy planking some seven feet high.
Dalton offered them whisky and chairs while Eleanor disappeared across the courtyard to change, and the men settled down to discussing the Indian problem.
‘I cain’t figger it,’ Dalton answered Nolan’s question. ‘We had trouble when we came into the territory, but the injuns bin peaceable the past couple years. A beef or two was all they took. Now all of a sudden they’re spoilin’ fer a fight.’
He paused, topping up their glasses.
‘Like I said, they hit the ranch. Come right in close. They ain’t tried that since we built it. Thing was, they had guns.’
‘That ain’t unusual,’ Christie pointed out. ‘They always got a few guns.’
‘Not like this,’ Dalton shook his head. ‘I never seen ’em carryin’ so many before. Repeaters too. Ain’t often you see Comanches usin’ Spencers, let alone Winchesters. They had plenty o’ ammunition, too.’
‘They was usin’ repeaters when they jumped us,’ said Nolan thoughtfully.
‘I reckon there’s a war brewin’,’ Dalton added. ‘They’re pickin’ up repeaters from the Comancheros an’ workin’ themselves up fer a big sweep.’
‘Ain’t the Army doin’ anything?’ Christie asked.
‘Ain’t much it can do,’ retorted Dalton. ‘Ain’t more’n five forts to cover the whole o’ Texas. Hell, there’s Fort Worth coverin’ the entire territory from the old Shawnee Trail to the Sabine an’ the border. Concho’s nigh on two hundred miles away, an’ Fort Quitman’s busy watchin’ New Mexico fer Apache trouble.’
He poured more whisky.
‘What’s that leave?’ He took a drink and answered his own question. ‘Fort Davis an’ Fort Stockton got the responsibility. Trouble is, they ain’t got the men. The cavalry’s spread so damn’ thin we don’t see a patrol more’n once a month if we’re lucky. An’ if there’s a flare-up someplace else we’re on our own.’
‘You got the Texas Rangers,’ Christie suggested.
‘Yeah,’ nodded Dalton, ‘but they got their own troubles. Ain’t so many o’ them, an’ the State’s big enough to keep ’em pretty busy.’
While he spoke, Nolan was studying him, weighing up the rancher. Nathaniel Dalton was a tired-looking man with permanent wrinkles worried into his forehead, and crow’s feet lines that weren’t all due to the sun spreading out from his tired eyes. Once, he had been a powerful figure, standing straight and broad-shouldered. Now he slumped, his shoulders stooped under the burden of too much hard work and too much worry. Nolan wondered what he’d do if he knew his wife was unfaithful. When the time was right he’d have to tell Dalton and find out.
For now, though, he was content to listen.
‘Fact is,’ Dalton was saying, ‘that I’m kinda glad to see you two. I know you done what Eleanor hired you for, an’ I owe you for that, but I’d like to put another proposition to you.’
Again he filled their glasses, as though hoping the liquor would persuade them.
‘From what Eleanor told me, you’re both pretty handy with a gun. Right now I can use some help in that department. How’d you feel about stayin’ on fer a while? I’ll pay well.’
Christie shrugged, waiting for Nolan to speak. The dark man grinned, turning his green-eyed gaze full on Dalton’s tired face.
‘Sure. We’ll stay around fer a spell.’
Eleanor chose that moment to reappear wearing a crisp calico dress that outlined the contours of her figure in a way that made Nolan wonder how they could arrange some more time together. Her golden hair was piled up around her head, emphasizing her big eyes and wide mouth, and her smile was both secretive and demure.
‘Honey,’ Nathaniel turned, grinning as she placed a hand on his shoulder, ‘these fellers have agreed to stay on fer a bit.’
‘How pleasant. I’m sure Mr. Nolan and Mr. Christie will be most helpful. We became quite good friends on the journey here.’
She looked directly at Nolan as she said it, her face straight, betraying nothing. Nolan grinned back.
‘We sure can use two extra guns,’ said Nathaniel.
‘Yes,’ agreed Eleanor, ‘and Mr. Nolan is very handy with his weapon. As is Mr. Christie.’
Nolan kept the smile fixed across his mouth and Jude Christie fought hard to suppress a snigger.
Dalton rose to his feet, explaining that he had to check something with his foreman, and left Eleanor to show his new-found hands to their rooms. Still playing the part of the good wife, she lead the way out to the veranda. The sleeping quarters were on the far side of the courtyard, and she showed Christie into one room before taking Nolan on to the next. She went inside with him.
‘How did you manage that?’ She sounded excited.
‘Easy,’ grinned Nolan, pulling her towards him. ‘Yore old man wants gun talent. We supply it.’
‘And you know what I want,’ breathed Eleanor, kissing him hard.
Yeah, thought Nolan, I know. But will you pay the price I’m asking?
Gunn rode away from the Comanche village slowly, taking care to keep the gelding quiet. Now that he had an idea what was happening, the Comanches were of no more interest. He had seen the gathering, and the paint, and knew that the tribes were preparing for all-out war. It wasn’t his problem, except that it might interfere with his plans for Nolan and Christie. The Flying D was close enough to make itself the obvious target for the Indians’ first attack, so he aimed to reach the ranch and killing the two men before the Comanches jumped them.
After that he could leave Texas to heal its own wounds and head back to New Mexico.
He found a sheltered gulley some time before dawn and made dry camp. He wanted to be fresh for the confrontation, so he settled down to sleep for a while.
Hernando and Enrico took a long time dying. Most of the night. But after a few hours, their screams died away to choking moans, and then to silence. When they stopped kicking and just hung over the fires the Comanches got bored and began to drift away. Iron Knife ordered the three remaining Comancheros lashed to stakes, and they spent the remainder of the night crouched uncomfortably on the ground, their arms dragged back behind them.
Graves got a little sleep around dawn, but as the sun came up the yapping of the camp dogs woke him. They were fighting over the corpses, jumping high to tear chunks of charred flesh from the dangling legs.
John Bear seemed to take it all philosophically. He had said nothing since being taken from the lodge, just watched his companions die with dark, expressionless eyes.
Graves hated him for his calm almost as much as he envied it.
Paco passed the night mumbling prayers. They did him little good because in the morning he was the first to be untied. Two braves cut the bonds holding him and dragged him towards the glowing embers of the central fire.
Paco stopped praying and began to scream, but one of the warriors shoved a wad of old leather into his mouth and the Mexican became fully occupied with breathing around the gag.
Iron Knife appeared, wrapped in a red blanket against the dawn chill, and faced Graves.
‘Tell the old one that if he fails to deliver the message you will die.’ The war chief smiled evilly. ‘If the guns are not here by the time the moon grows small you will die. Tell him that.’
Graves repeated the message, adding a heart-felt plea of his own. Paco nodded, his eyes wide, and the negro hoped the old man had more loyalty than his boss.
Iron Knife waited until he was sure his words were passed on. Then he drew a heavy-bladed knife. Four Indians turned Paco on his face, yanking his arms and legs out in a spreadeagle. Iron Knife stooped, slashing the tendons in Paco’s calves. The Mexican choked on his gag. Iron Knife studied his work appreciatively, then hacked off Paco’s thumbs. A squaw appeared and slapped crude bandages over the wounds. Then the Comanches lifted Paco onto his horse.
Iron Knife reached up and took the gag from his mouth.
‘Ride fast, old one.’ He smiled as he said it. ‘Before long the black poison will start to rot you and you will die alone. Take the message and you might live.’
He laughed as Paco rode out of the camp.