CLOUDS DID THEIR best to hide the moon and Gunn used all the cover he could find to get close to the Comanches. He moved silently, slipping from shadow to shadow the way old Sees-The-Fox had taught him. He used rocks and mesquite scrub to hide himself, bellying over the sand when he hit an open stretch, and he reached the edge of the horse herd without being seen.
The mustangs shifted nervously, and Gunn froze, waiting for them to become accustomed to his presence. In a way, it was lucky there were so many Comanches. Had the band been only a normal raiding party, the warriors would have slept with their animals hitched to wrists or ankles. The size of the war party made that impossible, so the beasts were hobbled under the care of scattered nightguards. Gunn drew his Bowie knife and waited for the nearest guard to draw close.
The man held a lever-action Spencer in his folded arms and looked bored. The expression was fixed forever on his face when Gunn killed him.
The half-breed came out from amongst the ponies on noiseless moccasins. His left arm circled the Comanche’s neck, dragging the chin up and back as a raised knee hit the base of his spine, bending him over. Then Gunn’s knife cut across his throat and he died.
The incident took no more than a few seconds and when it was ended Gunn draped the Comanche’s blanket around his shoulders and busied himself with the small bundles he had made during the day. Each one consisted of a square of material torn from a shirt and knotted around a core of gunpowder. He had sacrificed a fair amount of spare ammunition to provide the powder, but each bundle was a potential fire bomb, fused with sun-dried buffalo grass and ready to flare up at the touch of a match. Gunn tied several bundles to the tails of the hobbled ponies, then cut the others free. Trained to wait, the animals remained within the confines of the herd while he grouped the still-hobbled beasts at the farther edge of the area. Then he slashed the confining thongs and lit the fire bombs.
The mustangs twisted, whickering as the fuses burned down. Then the powder ignited and balls of bright flame erupted around their haunches. They screamed and stampeded, taking the others with them in a maddened rush that charged straight through the camp.
The Comanches came instantly awake as the ponies hit. They had split into tribal groups, and the herd Gunn had spooked contained about forty animals. Their fright communicated to the other herds and the mustangs tried to join the stampede. Suddenly the night was filled with the terrified screams of the mustangs and the shouts of confused Indians. Gunn added to the chaos by hurling more fire bombs at random into the camp. Then he turned and ran for his own horse.
A second guard moved to cut him off. Gunn hit the Comanche on the run, cannoning into the smaller man so that he crashed back, falling down. Without breaking stride, Gunn drew his Colt, firing directly into the man’s face. Then he was past the body, heading for the buffalo wallow.
He swung into the saddle and lifted the roan out of the depression. Three more Comanches ran towards him and he emptied the Colt in their direction. One collapsed with a hole in his ribs, the others turned back, looking for their ponies, and Gunn was gone into the night. He rode hard, knowing that pursuit would soon follow, seeking to build a head start, enough to lead the Indians away from the ranch.
The defenders of the Flying D listened in bewilderment to the noise outside. They could hear the Indian ponies screaming in terror, the clamor of the braves. Fire showed yellow against the darkness, seeming to race over the desert in wild patterns. But there was no way they could understand what was going on. Had they known, they might have tried to make a break then. Instead, they waited for daylight.
Iron Knife waited for nothing. He grabbed the mane of a galloping pony and swung astride the animal, shouting for his people to follow him. Then, backed by a handful of warriors, he turned the stampeding mustangs in a wide circle, driving them back towards the Indians waiting on foot. A few ponies ran free, but most of the herd was turned and recaptured. It took some time and it gave Gunn the start he needed.
Dawn lit the Staked Plains with pale, grey light. It showed a lone figure riding at an easy canter towards the south. Behind him came a group of thirty men, their faces angry beneath their war paint, their ponies running hard to gain ground on the fugitive.
Gunn watched them closing up and heeled the big roan to a faster pace. The gelding responded with a burst of speed that put distance on the Comanches. He used it to find cover.
A wash showed ahead and he went down the bank at full gallop, turned the roan eastwards and followed the dried-out stream bed until he spotted a south-pointing feeder creek. He kept going until cactus blocked his path, then took the horse up the bank onto the plain. The Comanches had followed him into the wash and were now invisible. Gunn urged the roan back to full gallop, looking for more cover.
He was confident of losing his pursuers, but disappointed that only part of the war band had come after him. The Comanches were far better disciplined than usual, and he wondered who wore the feathers of paramount war chief that he could hold the fractious Nemmenna in such tight check.
Iron Knife had exerted all his authority to prevent his entire war party from taking off after the mysterious rider.
The two braves who had spotted the man had not recognized him. All they could tell the war chief was that he was very fast and very good with a gun; he looked like a white man, but moved like an Indian. That he had managed to come amongst them unnoticed and stampede the horse herd was, of itself, evidence of Indian-like skill. That he was now escaping was a vicious blow to Iron Knife’s pride. Snarling his displeasure, the war chief called Little Buffalo to him, organizing a pursuit. Then he set to calming his disturbed followers in readiness for the morning’s attack.
When the sun rose, he was in a savage humor. With thirty warriors committed to the chase, and half that number killed in the fighting, his original band was cut down to few more than fifty braves. And the ranch still stood.
Iron Knife stared towards the hated building, trying to devise some means of getting inside.
Matthew Gunn kept running. He had a half-mile lead on the Comanches and the cross-bred gelding was holding its own. He didn’t know how long the Indians would keep after him before deciding they’d come far enough and turning back to the ranch, but at least he had pulled some out of the fight. Enough to give the people inside a better chance.
He rounded a mesa and grinned as luck placed a friendly hand on his shoulder.
Up ahead a column of men was riding towards him. They were dressed in beat-up American clothes, each man armed with a carbine and at least one pistol. Their mounts were big, reliable-looking horses, covering ground at an easy, loping pace. As he came closer, he could see the six-pointed stars pinned to jackets and shirts: the badge of the Texas Rangers.
They saw him coming and he hollered, pointing back at the Indians.
The Rangers looked towards the mesa, saw the Comanches, and charged. The Indians spotted them seconds later and began to whoop, dashing their ponies head-on at the column. They outnumbered the Texans thirty to twenty, and they anticipated an easy victory.
Gunn turned his own horse as the Rangers came level, heading back the way he had come with his Winchester held in both hands.
‘Name’s Abrams,’ bellowed the leading Ranger. ‘Captain Abrams.’
‘Pleased to know you,’ Gunn shouted back.
‘Yeah,’ Abrams yelled. ‘Looks like you could use some company.’
The two groups hit at full gallop. Three Rangers went down with bullets staining blood across their shirt-fronts, but more Comanches fell to the disciplined fire of the volunteer lawmen. Abrams took his men past the Indians, then spun his horse in its own length and charged back. The Rangers fired on the run, then used their heavier mounts to batter down the Comanche ponies. After the second charge only half the Indians were still alive. They whooped and came in again, and this time Abrams called his men to stand. They sat their horses and picked off the painted warriors like marksmen at a turkey shoot. Three Comanches toppled to the sand and the remainder broke and ran, heading back towards the mesa.
Abrams shouted for his Rangers to let them go and turned to Gunn.
‘Where you from, mister?’ He was pushing cartridges into his Winchester as he spoke.
‘Came from the Flying D,’ answered Gunn, ‘they got a whole lot of trouble there.’
‘That so?’ Abrams slid the Winchester into the saddle boot. ‘Figgered they might. We’re headin’ that way.’
‘Mind if I ride along?’ Gunn asked.
Abrams shook his head, studying Gunn’s face.
‘I seen you anyplace before?’ He asked. ‘Seems to me I know you.’
Gunn recalled the bounty posted on him for killing the Ranger sergeant and shook his head, hoping Abrams was too busy chasing hostiles to start thinking about reward notices.
‘Don’t think so,’ he said evenly, ‘I rode in from California.’
‘Shoulda stayed there,’ grunted Abrams. ‘It’s quieter.’
He called his men into line and they set out for the Flying D.
Nolan watched the activity in front of the ranch. Something had spooked the Indians during the night and he estimated their numbers to be lower than the day before. But now something was going on and it made him tetchy that he didn’t know what it was.
He found out soon enough.
A wagon appeared through the dust, pushed by several braves. It was piled high with buffalo grass and timber from the burned-out wreckage of the bunkhouse and the barn. The high tailgate and the weathered plank sides protected the Comanches from his gun, and he began to swear softly as he realized what they were planning.
He shouted for Christie to use the Sharps on the wagon, but not even the big buffalo gun could penetrate the woodwork, at least not until it got too close for comfort. By then the Indians were too eager to close in to take much notice of the bullets. Nolan tried firing under the wagon, and succeeded in crippling three Comanches. Christie got two more by shooting straight through the rig as it came up to the main door. But then it hit the oak paneling and horsemen charged in from either side, ignoring the fusillade that echoed around them as they lifted the pushers in flying pick-ups and headed back out of range.
Then the fire arrows started again.
Three landed dead center of the piled grass and the wagon began to burn. It caught slowly at first, the grass crackling as rivulets of flame darted swiftly through the sun-bleached stems. Then the charred timbers caught, adding a steady swirl of flame that ignited the bodywork of the wagon itself. Smoke, black and stinking, began to pour in around the edges of the door, and the metal rivets grew hot. Nolan shouted for water and blankets, and Dalton called two cowhands from the windows to sluice the door and hang a blanket over the timber. They soaked the cloth, which helped stem the smoke, but they knew it was only a matter of time before the door itself caught fire.
And then the way would be open for the Comanches.
The Indians continued to press the attack against all four sides, risking more casualties as they drew men from the firefighting to man the gun ports. They lost warriors, but they bought the time it took for the main door to catch fire.
Christie threw water over the blanket, but it dried quickly, and as he used his carbine, the material began to smolder. Soon, the lower edge grew black, then red, then tongues of flame swept up the blanket. It was ignored as the Comanches pressed home a new assault.
Abruptly, a gush of heat spat across the room and a long, flickering jet of flame burst from the door. The wood crackled, blackening. Then the central portion collapsed inwards, clouding the room with sparks and smoke.
Anxious to count first coup, a young brave hurled himself through the flames. Nolan shot him as he landed inside, then fired the Winchester from the hip, straight through the door.
For the moment, the Comanches fell back, but fire crept over the floor, and the two men knew that in minutes the room would be an inferno.
Still shooting, they drew back to the side rooms as the Comanches came in.