CAPTAIN ABRAMS HALTED his Rangers a half mile out from the Flying D.
The ranch house was burning and around the main door the Comanches were clustered thicker than flies on new-fallen horse apples. Abrams watched them, his lips moving as he tried to count.
‘Hell,’ he grunted, turning to Gunn, ‘I ain’t never seen so many injuns out here. Wonder what riled ’em up.’
‘Comancheros,’ murmured the blond man, checking his weapons. ‘They been supplying guns.’
‘You can tell me about it later,’ said Abrams. ‘You want in on this? Or you chicken?’
‘It’s a free range,’ said Gunn coldly, ‘an’ I got a personal interest.’
‘Good.’ Abrams smoothed back his thinning hair and glanced round at his men. They were waiting for his word to go. ‘When I holler, you stick with me; I don’t aim to holler twice.’
He waved his arm and the Rangers moved their horses to line abreast. The arm fell and the line began to walk forwards. The pace increased to a trot that got steadily faster, rising to a canter. A quarter mile from the ranch the Rangers were covering ground fast and the Indians still hadn’t seen them. Then Abrams yelled and the line plunged forwards, boots and spurs accelerating the horses to a headlong gallop.
The Comanches spotted the attack too late. By the time they turned to meet the Rangers, the Texans were in amongst them, killing with a ferocity that matched the Indians own savagery.
Gunn emptied his Winchester and drew his Colt. When that was emptied, he used his knife, slashing and stabbing a path to the door. The Rangers were badly outnumbered, but the sheer violence of their attack drove the Comanches back. More accustomed to freewheeling horseback fights than this kind of close-range battle, the Indians were at a disadvantage. Their confusion was increased by the counter-attack from inside the ranch.
Led by Nolan and Christie, Dalton and his men came out fighting.
Ten Indians were bottled up in the main room. They went down under the concentrated fire of the survivors. Then the defenders came out into the open to back the Rangers.
Iron Knife saw his men going down and screamed for a retreat. He turned his own pony and ran for the open plain. Behind him, the Comanches broke off the struggle and fled. They had lost thirty warriors.
The Rangers let them go. What no-one knew was that four warriors were still inside the ranch. They had scaled the walls during the confusion of the Ranger attack, dropping into the courtyard where they killed two cowboys, and moving through the house. They heard Iron Knife’s shouted order to retreat and went back the way they had come in.
On the way, they spotted Eleanor Dalton.
The woman screamed when she saw the Indians, but her cry was drowned by gunfire. She lifted the rifle she was holding, but the leading Comanche knocked it aside, then swung his war club back against Eleanor’s temple. She collapsed without a sound. The Indians picked her up, climbed to the roof, and rode away. Eleanor Dalton was draped over the shoulders of the leading pony.
Iron Knife reached the main camp without further incident He was in an ugly mood and the news of successful attacks in other parts of the territory served only to heighten his anger at his own failure.
Samuel Graves and John Bear were still tied to the stakes, though now in considerably worse condition. Beard stubble covered their filthy cheeks and their clothes were smeared with spilled food and blood. The Indian women had fed them—as casually as they fed their dogs—and amused themselves tormenting the two men. When the squaws weren’t hurting them, the children used them as targets for their practice arrows. Their bodies were cramped by the confinement, and because no-one had thought to loose them, the stink of ordure vied with the reek of their sweat.
Iron Knife smiled when he saw them. Their degradation cheered him a little.
‘Moon soon get thin,’ he said, poking Graves with his Winchester. ‘You think old one come back?’
He laughed and walked away.
Abrams’ Rangers helped douse the fires threatening to finish the Comanches’ work. Four of Dalton’s hired hands were dead, and three more wounded. The rancher himself wore a ragged bandage around his head, blood from a hatchet wound seeping through the smoke-grimed cloth.
Nolan and Christie were unharmed and the first thing they did when the fighting ceased was help themselves to Dalton’s whisky. The rancher made no move to stop them, and after a moment’s thought, passed bottles out to his men and the Rangers. The two scalp hunters carried theirs through to the courtyard, where the air was cleaner. So they didn’t see Matthew Gunn enter the ranch house.
Gunn turned down Dalton’s offer of a drink. He studied the men around him, looking for Nolan and Christie. When he couldn’t find them, he asked Dalton.
‘Why sure,’ said the rancher, ‘they’re around someplace. They done real well in the fight.’
‘Yeah,’ grunted Gunn. ‘They like killing Indians.’
Dalton looked at him curiously. ‘They friends o’ yours?’
‘Not exactly.’ Gunn’s voice was low, cold. ‘They met my folks.’
‘Try the yard,’ Dalton suggested, ‘I gotta go see Eleanor.’
Gunn went through to the courtyard. A handful of Rangers were cleaning up around the spring and he ignored them. On the far side of the area he could see Nolan talking with Christie. They hadn’t seen him, and he drew his Colt, thumbing back the hammer as he started across the courtyard.
Then a hand grasped his wrist and a pistol barrel dug into his ribs.
‘Let’s you an’ me have that talk,’ said Abrams quietly.
He steered Gunn off to the side into a bedroom, and kicked the door shut.
‘Somethin’s troublin’ you, mister. You wanta tell me about it?’
Gunn shook his head. ‘It’s personal.’
‘Friend,’ Abrams said evenly, ‘right now we’re in the middle of an injun war. You mentioned Comancheros earlier. That makes it my business.’ His voice grew harsh. ‘Why was you fixin’ to gun them two?’
The blond man watched the Ranger’s face for a moment, thinking. He didn’t know where Abrams stood on the question of scalp hunting. It could be that the Ranger captain would side with Nolan and Christie; or he might come down the other way. Whatever, there wasn’t too much choice: Abrams was holding a leveled gun and he wanted answers.
‘They killed my parents. They ran a scalp hunting outfit that hit my folks’ place. I been chasing them since.’
‘How come they took white hair?’ Abrams sounded skeptical.
Gunn shrugged. ‘My mother was Chiricahua Apache.’
‘Hey!’ Abrams was abruptly alert. ‘So you’re a ’breed. What you call yoreself?’
‘Gunn,’ he answered. ‘Matthew Gunn.’
Abrams scratched his head. ‘Also known as Azul. And wanted fer killin’ a Ranger sergeant.’
‘He drew first. It was self-defense.’
‘That’s as maybe.’ Abrams friendly attitude was gone now. ‘But he was still a Ranger.’
‘So what’re you planning to do?’ Gunn asked, easing his hand slowly towards his Colt, ‘Kill me on the spot? Or do I get a trial?’
‘That’s kinda difficult,’ admitted Abrams. ‘You’re one problem I coulda done without right now. How’s about givin’ me that pistol fer starters. With yore left hand.’
Gunn reached across to the Colt and handed it to the Ranger.
‘Now we’ll check things out with them two,’ murmured Abrams.
Still holding his revolver on Gunn’s belly, he opened the door and called one of his men over. A few seconds later Nolan and Christie entered the room with two Rangers close behind.
‘Sweet Jesus!’ Christie started to draw as he spoke. ‘It’s him!’
Nolan said nothing. Just stood with his cold, green eyes fixed on Gunn.
‘Hold it, mister.’ Abrams’ voice was a whiplash sound in the tensed room, and a Ranger grabbed Christie’s gun hand, shoving the Colt down in the holster.
‘We got kinda different views on a story,’ Abrams continued. ‘This feller claims you two scalped his folks. That right?’
Christie started to say something, but Nolan glanced at him and the Southerner clammed up.
‘We tangled with some Chiricahuas one time,’ Nolan said, ‘an’ he’s been followin’ us since. Could be his folks was part o’ the bunch. Fact is, he ain’t nothin’ but a ’breed. An’ he’s wanted.’
He paused, grinning at Gunn.
‘You check yore dodgers, Captain. You’ll find he’s wanted on both sides o’ the border. Killed a man in Mexico an’ then a Ranger in Piedras Negras. He killed friends o’ mine, too.’
‘Yeah,’ Christie joined in. ‘Luis an’ Manolo was real close. He killed ’em both.’
‘What about Carson City?’ Gunn asked quietly. ‘Remember that?’
‘What about it?’ Abrams turned to him, curious.
‘They hit the bank,’ said Gunn. ‘Killed everyone inside an’ headed for the hills. They found a wagon train on the way. Stole the horses.’
‘Now that,’ said Abrams sharply, ‘is one helluva accusation,’
‘Check with Carson City or Stockton.’ Gunn pressed his point. ‘The law there’ll confirm it.’
‘That,’ remarked Abrams sarcastically, ‘might be kinda difficult right now. The real fact o’ the matter appears to be that you’re wanted in Texas. Could well be yore story’s true, an’ these fellers are on the dodge from the law same as you. Trouble is there ain’t no way I can check that.’
‘Give me back my gun,’ said the half-breed, ‘and leave us alone. We can sort it out ourselves,’
‘Anytime,’ Nolan snarled.
‘That’s one solution,’ nodded Abrams, ‘but it ain’t exactly a legal-type answer. You fellers just sit a spell while I figger out what to do about you,’
He thought for a while, staring at nothing. After a while he nodded to himself and spoke again.
‘I guess I’m duty-bound to bring you in,’ he pointed at Gunn. ‘I’m kinda sorry about it: you helped us a considerable amount. But there ain’t no two ways to it. I gotta take you back,’
Christie laughed out loud and Nolan grinned. Then they both stopped as Abrams turned to face them.
‘An’ you two better come along as well. If what Gunn here says is right, you’ll be posted. There ain’t enough of us to go chasin’ them Comanch’, so we’ll all ride over to Abilene.’
He motioned to the Rangers standing behind Nolan and Christie, and the Texans lifted their guns.
‘Alright,’ smiled Abrams. ‘Now let’s go,’
He turned towards the door, gesturing for the prisoners to go through first. Then stopped as a hoarse despairing cry echoed through the wreckage of the Flying D.
‘Eleanor!’ It was Dalton’s voice. ‘They took Eleanor,’
Abrams went through the door fast. Dalton saw him and hooked desperate hands into the Ranger’s shirt.
‘My wife! The injuns got my wife! ’
‘Oh, fuck!’ Abrams snarled. ‘If I ain’t got enough problems already.’
He sighed, lifting Dalton’s clutching fingers away from his shirt.
‘How’d you know, Nat?’
‘She’s gone! She was with us through the fight but now she’s gone,’
‘Dammit!’ Grunted Abrams. ‘They must’ve took her when they got inside. Alright, Nat. Calm down. We’ll go after her,’
He turned away, talking mostly to himself.
‘They probably ain’t killed her yet.’
‘Can you get her back?’ Dalton’s voice was on the verge of cracking.
‘Don’t rightly know,’ said Abrams slowly. ‘Way them injuns was runnin’ they must have taken her along to their camp. Trouble is, we don’t know where they’re located.’
‘I do,’ said Gunn clearly.
‘Mister, you better not be tryin’ anything.’ Abrams’ eyes bored into Gunn’s.
‘I’m not,’ replied Gunn evenly. ‘I spotted the camp riding out here. I can take you to it.’
‘Friend,’ grinned Abrams, ‘you got yoreself a job. Spot us that camp an’ I’ll listen to yore story over again.’
‘It’s a deal,’ said Gunn.