THEY RODE DUE north through a night filled with menace, each rock, every cactus assuming the shape of a Comanche warrior. The pale moon threw only a fitful light over the Staked Plains, but to the three fugitives it seemed bright as the noon sun. Gunn lead the way, taking them up onto the rimrock where the ground was harder and their trail wouldn’t show so clearly. He meandered deliberately, seeking to confuse any pursuit, taking them off the bluff into the desert with reluctance.
On his own, he could have lost the Comanches. Burdened with the woman, he gave them a fifty-fifty chance that would reduce to zero if they were spotted.
Eleanor Dalton was still halfway hysterical, her strained mind fighting to adjust to her ordeal, to the shock of self-knowledge that had possessed her after her wanton episode with Graves. Gunn put her on his own horse, using his lariat to tie her in the saddle, where she rode like an automaton. Abrams stationed himself behind her, ready to goad her on if she faltered, but she kept pace, mumbling softly to herself.
Around dawn there was a light rain. It didn’t last long, but Gunn took the opportunity to wash the dye from his hair and body. It seemed to reassure the woman, for she became quieter, less nervous of the hard-faced man guiding them through the badlands.
They halted beneath a blazing sun that shone from directly above them, baking the sand and bathing them in their own sweat. Gunn rationed the water, giving most of it to the horses. Then he fed them their first meal in twelve hours: he had deliberately starved the animals for fear of leaving droppings to mark their trail. After that they pushed on.
Back at the bluff a party of Comanches found the cooled- off remnants of the fire and the marks of three horses. Four of the Indians scouted ahead, while the fifth set off to find Iron Knife.
The war chief reached the bluff with twenty men, and took off at a gallop along the cold trail.
He was angry, consumed with a cold fury that demanded blood and suffering to slake his thirst for vengeance. His defeat at the Flying D had eroded his authority over the gathered bands of Nemmenna, and he had sought to use the captured woman to strengthen the loyalty of his followers. Her disappearance, and the fire in the village, had shaken his position badly, and even now groups of warriors were drifting away. Iron Knife was determined to get the woman back—and kill whoever had taken her.
Nolan and Christie reached the Flying D on played-out horses. They found Dalton’s surviving hands rebuilding the ranch. The stone and adobe that constituted the bulk of the place had withstood the fire with only black bum marks to show what had happened. The timber of the main door, the central room, and the interior veranda had suffered worse damage, but already the house was regaining a semblance of order.
They rode in with a story prepared to account for Dalton’s absence.
Josh Whitney, the foreman, wanted to hear it as soon as they dismounted. He called a hand to take their horses, and hurried them inside the building.
‘What happened? Where’s Nat?’
‘Dead,’ said Nolan flatly. At least that much was true. ‘Got killed on the way to the Comanch’ village.’
‘How?’ Whitney had been with Dalton from the beginning; he was a friend as much as a foreman, and there was something about these two he didn’t like.
‘Well,’ Nolan said slowly, sensing Whitney’s animosity, ‘we headed fer the village with the ’breed showin’ us the way. Then the injuns jumped us. Abrams an’ the ’breed cut off on their own, figgerin’ to bring the woman out, an’ the rest of us headed south fer Abilene.
‘We had to fort up because the Comanch’ was thicker’n fleas on a dog, an’ Dalton reckoned the three of us would stand a better chance than a big party.’
‘You said Abrams an’ Gunn was ridin’ fer the village,’ interrupted Whitney.
‘Yeah, sure.’ Nolan nodded agreement. ‘But you know how Dalton felt about his wife.’
He shrugged eloquently, and Whitney grunted.
‘So,’ continued Nolan, ‘he asked Jude an’ me to cut loose an’ ride back. We left the Rangers to handle themselves an’ moved out in the night. We was makin’ fer where we thought the village to be located when the injuns hit us.’
He paused dramatically, fixing a sympathetic expression on his face.
‘It was a runnin’ fight. The three o’ us against about fifteen injuns. Dalton got hit. We did our best to keep him in the saddle, but he was too bad hurt. After a while he died on us, an’ we had to run fer it.’
‘Poor ole Dalton,’ added Christie. ‘Them Comanch’ just rode him down. Was that saved us, I reckon. They was so busy stompin’ him down that we got clear away.’
Christie’s fingers were getting itchy from the thought of the gold eagles hidden by the fountain. He was, at the best of times, an unsubtle man, more used to using a Colt than his brains. But there were too many cowhands around the spread to risk a gunfight. It looked as though a fair number of the Flying D riders had been on the open range when the Comanches attacked, and come in after the fight, swelling the force already in the ranch house.
Anyway, there were too many to handle, so Christie decided to leave things to Nolan.
The dark man was doing enough thinking for both of them. His story sounded plausible enough, and there was no way Whitney could disprove it, even though the foreman looked doubtful. The random factors were something else. Gunn and the Ranger captain might come back with the woman; or the survivors of the Ranger Company—if there were any—might appear; getting the money was a big enough problem in itself; getting out of the territory was another. Nolan decided to bide his time, at least until dark.
Iron Knife was too impatient to wait. He lost the trail on a section of bedrock twenty miles north of the big camp and called his scouts in. There was no way of telling exactly where the fugitives were headed, but given that the woman had come from the ranch, it seemed safe to assume they would go back there.
The Comanche war chief turned his pony and rode for the Flying D.
Matthew Gunn faced a difficult choice: the Dalton spread was the nearest white enclave, but it couldn’t take the Comanches long to guess that for themselves. That meant the horse warriors could get between him and the ranch; Amarillo, Pecos and Abilene—the closest towns—were days distant across hostile country. Nolan and Christie had been riding for Abilene, but Gunn had given his word that he would rescue the woman. Bringing her safe to home could mean that Abrams would use his influence to drop the murder charge outstanding in Texas, leaving Gunn free to come and go as he pleased. Renege on his promise, and he would still be wanted; fulfil it, and the men he hunted might get free.
Not for the first time the half-breed found his conscience divided. He chose to put the matter in the hands of whichever gods ruled the Staked Plains, and asked Abrams.
‘Hell,’ grunted the Ranger, ‘I was kinda figgerin’ on you settin’ the path. Nat could be back on the D by now. Amarillo’s two days off, the ranch ain’t more’n one; let’s try fer there.’
Gunn shrugged and turned west.
They were twenty miles out when the Comanches showed again.
Gunn saw them first, a line of men walking their ponies along the crest of the ridge to his right. He looked to his left, and saw a second line. Glancing behind, he watched the Indians close ranks, so that he was riding at the center of a fan of horsemen.
Then they closed ahead. Gunn reined in: there was no point in trying anything else.
Behind him, Eleanor Dalton muffled a scream and Abrams cursed. Gunn twisted on the blanket saddle, motioning for silence.
‘They want the woman first.’ His voice was harsh with urgency. ‘Let me talk to them. Maybe I can work something out.’
It was a pretty slender thread on which to hang their lives, but at that moment it was all they had—and hope was better than nothing. He remembered something his father had once told him: A gun is a tool, Matt, nothing more. Times are, your life will depend on using it right But more often than not, you can use your tongue better. Get a man talking and you might be able to out-fox him; if that doesn’t work, then use the gun.
He was thinking hard along just those lines as three Comanches broke from the ranks and came towards him.
The lead rider was tall for an Indian, a big, well-muscled man on a paint pony. He carried a new model Winchester and the black-tipped eagle feathers of his war bonnet numbered better than thirty coups. Gunn knew this must be the paramount chief of the gathered Nemmenna.
The Comanche halted his mustang and sat for long seconds in silence. Then he spoke, moving his hands in the sign-talk of the South-western deserts.
‘I am Iron Knife, leader of all Nemmenna. You have taken the woman from me and I shall kill you for that, but you are a brave man for doing it and I shall place your hair high on my trophy pole.’
Gunn answered fast, anxious to catch the Comanche’s interest before he was cut down.
‘I am called Matthew Gunn by the white people, but my mother’s folk called me Azul. My mother was Apache a daughter of the Chiricahua.’
Iron Knife grunted, and a whisper of surprise rose from the watching Indians. Gunn fought to retain the psychological initiative.
‘Your people and mine are old enemies, but we share one thing: the white men have taken our land.’
‘That is true,’ said Iron Knife, curious.
‘My people have fought to the west and to the south,’ continued Gunn, ‘and fight still. My father’s blood was white, but he lived amongst the Chiricahua and raised me in the country of the lonely hills, as an Apache warrior.’
‘Hya!’ Iron Knife’s cry was half grudging approval. ‘It is good! No white man could have come among us to take the woman. When I kill you, I shall honor your body.’
‘If you kill me!’ Gunn shouted, gambling three lives on the war chief’s conceit. ‘For I challenge you to single combat.’
An Apache would have laughed at the challenge and shot him out of his saddle, spitting on the corpse for its foolishness. But the Comanches were not so practical, their society was based upon a tight system of honor and valor. And Iron Knife’s dream of uniting the scattered bands to drive the whites from the plains depended heavily on his personal authority. The challenge was an invitation he could not afford to refuse.
‘So,’ he shouted, pitching his own voice so that his warriors would hear clearly, ‘you challenge me. What if you win?’
‘We ride free,’ said Gunn, ‘and your people will let us pass,’
‘It is fair,’ replied Iron Knife, ‘but it will never be. I shall fight you now and I shall kill you, and then I shall kill your white friend and take the woman back.’
‘If you can,’ grunted the half-breed.
Iron Knife turned, shouting to his warriors, and they closed around the trio, studying Gunn with curious eyes and more than a little respect. Few men had challenged the war chief, and fewer still had lived.
Abrams watched the Indians closing in, keeping his hands ostentatiously away from his guns. He reached across to seize Eleanor Dalton’s bridle in case the woman should panic, then called out to Gunn.
‘What’s goin’ on?’
‘I invited their chief to a fight,’ explained the half-breed. ‘If I win, we go free.’
‘Do I need to ask what happens if you lose?’ Abrams murmured.
Gunn shook his head.
The two men flanking Iron Knife herded the Ranger and the woman off to one side as the other Comanches backed their ponies to form a long avenue of around four hundred yards depth, and one hundred in width. Iron Knife called out in his own language and a brave handed Gunn a war lance. The half-breed took the ten-foot pole, weighing it in his hand. It was not a weapon with which he was familiar, for the Apache preferred to fight with bow, or rifle, using hatchet and knife for close work; but there was no choice to the matter. Iron Knife was already backing his pony off, lining it for the charge.
Gunn walked his animal back to the farther end of the avenue, hefting the unaccustomed weight of the lance in his right hand.
Iron Knife held his pole two thirds of the way down the shaft, nestling it tight between elbow and ribs so that the metal headed tip angled slightly downwards. Gunn copied him. The Comanche shouted something, dancing his pony in a tight circle, and the half-breed guessed that he was boasting to his followers. Gunn removed his Stetson and tossed it over to Abrams, then waited.
Iron Knife screamed a war cry and heeled his pony forwards, Gunn rammed his boots against the mustang’s ribs and went to meet the charging rider.
They thundered at one another, the war ponies hitting full gallop in yards. Iron Knife’s lance dropped level with Gunn’s knees, lifting as they closed. It was the classic Comanche gut- thrust, the lance aimed at the enemy’s groin, where it would do the most damage, lifting him off his horse dead or crippled, but leaving the victor clear to haul the pole free from torn entrails.
Had it connected as Iron Knife planned, Gunn would have been a dead man.
But he saw the thrust coming and tilted to the side. He slid across and over the pony, using his right arm and leg to hold himself in position along the animal’s left flank.
Iron Knife’s lance drew blood from the mustang, but left Gunn unhurt.
The half-breed swung back onto the saddle and turned the beast in its own length. For all his speed, Iron Knife was faster. The Comanche was coming back even as Gunn turned, the lance angling for a second thrust.
Gunn feinted to the left, counting on Iron Knife anticipating the motion, and swung upright as the lance moved to counter his maneuver. It tore his shirt, but his chest crossed the stroke so that the weight of his body hit the pole even as his own weapon drove for the Comanche’s belly.
Iron Knife sucked in his stomach, hurling himself sideways as he raised his lance to deflect Gunn’s blow. Both men felt their arms forced upwards, and Gunn felt a heavy blow along the side of his head as his lance dragged back over the Comanche’s body.
Sharp metal cut his temple and warm blood spilled down his face, but he was clear and moving towards the end of the tilting ground.
He hauled the mustang round for the third run and saw Iron Knife already charging down on him. They met and Gunn saw too late that the Indian’s tactics were changed. The lance dropped and he shifted aside, but this time it stayed down. He heeled the pony over, yanking hard on the guide rein, but the animal was moving too fast to change its direction quickly enough, and the lance hit.
It slammed hard into the mustang’s chest, driving deep through lungs and heart, and the pony screamed, blowing spumes of blood over the sand. Its knees buckled and its head went down. Gunn felt the withers rise and pitched himself forwards over the fallen head.
Iron Knife’s lance snapped as the pony fell against the shaft, but he reached out and snatched Gunn’s pole as he went past.
A great shout rose from the watching Comanches as their chief swung his mount around and the half-breed tumbled onto the sand.
Eleanor Dalton screamed as she watched Gunn hit the ground and Iron Knife adjust the captured lance for another charge. Abrams let his right hand drift slowly towards his Colt, swearing softly as he calculated how many Indians he could down before they killed him. After using one shot on the woman he reckoned he could take at least three Comanches with him.
Gunn landed on his left shoulder and rolled with the fall. Propelled by the momentum of the dying pony, he tumbled end over end, tasting sand in his mouth as he twisted and came up onto his knees and hands. He looked up and saw Iron Knife coming in fast with the lance pointed at his belly. He came to his feet, powering sideways as the Comanche went past. The pony’s shoulder hit him in the chest, slamming him down again. But the lance had missed.
Iron Knife turned, and whooped, and came on at full gallop.
Gunn stood with his legs spread, knees braced to take the impact of the lance. He crouched slightly, holding both hands before him as though to fend off the sharp metal tip.
His pale blue eyes were fixed on the glinting spear and his ears were deaf to Iron Knife’s victorious yell.
The Comanche closed the distance between them with ferocious speed. His lance was aimed at the center of Gunn’s stomach and his eyes were alight with savage joy, anticipating his opponent’s death.
Gunn poised on the balls of his feet, bringing his left leg slightly to the front. His battle-honed senses took in the direction of the Comanche’s charge, the angle of the lance, the speed of the mustang. As the metal tip shafted at his belly, he pivoted on both feet, leaning back so that the pole brushed past his midriff.
And he reached out to take it in both hands.
He swung his body, throwing his whole weight against the lance, dragging it round to yank back Iron Knife’s hand, slam the butt hard across the Comanche’s spine.
The move took the war chief by surprise. Suddenly the easy target was gone, taking the lance. He felt a blow against his lower back and shifted sideways, trying hard to retain his grip on the weapon. It was a bad mistake, for it lost him his balance on the pony, and when he tried to regain the saddle the lance flailed into him and he crashed to the ground.
Gunn moved fast, ramming the butt of the lance into Iron Knife’s ribs before the Comanche could roll clear. The war chief grunted as air gusted from his lungs, and tried to push to his feet. Gunn used the lance like a staff, whacking it down across his enemy’s shoulders. Iron Knife’s arms gave under the blow and he collapsed face down on the sand.
Gunn shifted his grip, taking the lance in both hands halfway down the shaft. He planted his feet on either side of the Comanche’s body and raised his arms high above his head. Then, putting all the power of his muscular shoulders into the blow, he brought the lance down.
The edged metal head clove through the skin between Iron Knife’s shoulder blades, and the coppery flesh was suddenly dark with blood. It sliced through a lung, grated on a rib, and imbedded deep in the sand.
Iron Knife screamed, his body arching backwards against the pain. His legs flailed as though he was trying to push himself clear of the lance, and his wildly scrabbling hands gouged great chunks of sand from the ground. He writhed and struggled like some great insect pinned down on a collector’s board, and he lifted his contorted face to the sky, opening his mouth to scream again. But only blood came out, and he shuddered and died.
From around the battle ground, lifting from more than twenty Comanche throats, there came a wild, wailing cry. It ululated over the empty land, a keening that was both a death song for the fallen chief and a lament for a lost dream. Iron Knife’s vision died with him, and his followers knew it. There was no other Comanche strong enough to hold the bands together, no other warrior gifted with the medicine dream; the braves mourned a dead comrade and a lost hope.
Matthew Gunn stood in silence, his face impassive waiting for the warriors to finish their lament.
They fell silent and a man rode forward. He took the rein of Iron Knife’s mustang and held it out to Gunn, Then, using sign language, he began to speak.
‘You have beaten Iron Knife, who was a great warrior. You have proved yourself mightier in battle, and all that was Iron Knife’s is now yours. You are free to go, as our chief promised. If you wish it, I will take you to our camp where you will see what is now yours.’
Gunn stared gravely at the man. ‘I will take the pony, but that is all. The horses of your chief, his weapons, his lodge and his wives, I trust to you to share amongst the Nemmenna. Tell your people that it is my wish that it be so.’
He glanced down at the bloodied body of the war chief. Flies were already clustering around the shaft protruding from its back.
‘Take the body of Iron Knife with you. He was a brave warrior and a mighty chief and it is my wish that you should bury him with honor, as befits a war chief of the Nemmenna.’
‘It is good,’ nodded the Comanche, and called out to the others.
Gunn watched as four horsemen dismounted, walking over to the corpse. They pulled the lance free of the body, disturbing the flies so that they buzzed irritably, trying to get back to their feast. Then, solemnly, the warriors lifted Iron Knife and carried him to their waiting ponies. Two braves gave up their lances and a travois was rigged. They set the body upon the thing and mounted. The Indian who had first spoken turned back to Gunn.
‘Go now, in peace. You and your companions. We shall not harm you.’ He paused, his face stony. ‘But know this Azul, who is called Matthew Gunn: when next we meet, I shall kill you.’
He turned his mustang, falling into step beside the animal dragging the travois, and called out to the waiting men. Silently, they rode away, leaving the half-breed and his two companions alone in the badlands.
Gunn waited until they were gone from sight lost in the shimmering haze lifting up from the sand. Then he swung astride Iron Knife’s pony, grinning at Abrams.
‘We’re safe to go now. They won’t try to stop us.’
Abrams let a whistle shrill from between clenched teeth.
‘That,’ he said softly, ‘was about as close as I like to part my hair. Thank God you beat him.’
‘It was the talk that did it,’ replied Gunn, poker-faced. ‘After that it was just a question of making sure he got the point.’