Commanche Vengeance Read online

  “Ready!” Red Shirt bellowed.

  Up and down the rim the men set themselves, forgetting the cold now, not feeling the stiffness in their fingers, not really feeling anything as they watched the Indians enter the depression at the foot of the slope.

  “Aim!” Red Shirt bellowed.

  The men tightened up and set their sights on a head or chest or a side shot into the back and chest and waited. The Indians were having a difficult time getting up the first third of the slope; their ponies kept slipping and sliding on the hard earth.

  “Fire!”

  The first shots echoed through the hard, bright air as one. Five braves fell off their horses and rolled back toward the bottom of the slope. But five more took their places as the empty ponies skittered out of the way and ran off to the side. The Indians began to fire back now. Those in the rear and at the bottom of the slope took their time and aimed their carbines slowly, while others on the side began to throw shafts into the air.

  Duke saw a cowboy drop silently, an arrow in his head. Another jerked up with blood pouring out of his neck where a slug had torn out his windpipe. He tried to yell, and died making the most horrible sound Sarah had ever heard.

  The Indians fell back. Duke counted nine bodies that had rolled back to the bottom of the slope. Sarah and Duke continued to fire, with Red Shirt beside them bellowing at the top of his voice, urging his men on. “Shoot straight, you bastards! Shoot straight—and we’ll clean ’em out!”

  The Indians fell back, riding hard out of range, leaving seven dead at the bottom of the slope and taking two wounded with them.

  They rode out a thousand yards and came to a stop, making a line across the plain. Even the empty ponies came to a rest, in line with the others. Several of those in the center of the line began to talk and make gestures with their arms.

  Sarah dropped her carbine.

  Red Shirt turned to Duke. “Want to thank you for warning us, mister. Name’s Ryan.”

  “What you think they’re going to do now?” Duke asked, nodding toward the Indians and reaching out to take the offered hand of the red-shirted Ryan. “Name’s Duke, and that’s Miss Sarah.”

  “How do, ma’am,” Ryan said. He turned back toward the Indians. “They’ll hit us again, but they’ve decided that since they lost their surprise party—they’re going to hit us from front and back.”

  “That makes good sense,” Duke said.

  “For them, not for me,” Ryan said.

  “You could leave a few of us here on the rim and pull back with the others to the wagon and hold up any others that might come around the back.”

  “Might, hell,” Ryan said. “There they go now.” The Indians were splitting up evenly into two groups. One of them raced back over their own trail to the head of the butte where Sarah and Duke had climbed up to the flat top.

  “Who're your best shots?” Duke asked, getting up suddenly.

  “Ain’t nobody in camp better’n me,” Ryan said. “Why?”

  “Two good shots could hold this rim and the rest could go back to the wagon and fort up there.”

  “You any good?” Ryan demanded. “Cause if you ain’t, I got a boy here that could take the hair off a ant’s ear at fifty yards.”

  “Then why not send him back to the wagon.” Duke said. “He could do a lot of work back there with the others. I'll do all right up here, I reckon.”

  Ryan nodded. He turned to Sarah. “I’d feel better if you’d just git in the wagon, ma’am, and not try and do any shooting.”

  Duke laughed. “Man, you don’t know what you’re saying. This woman’s been looking all over creation for one special Indian that killed her husband and children. You ain’t seen a woman like this one before.”

  Sarah appeared not to hear. She had been studying the faces of the Indians, searching the bodies of those at the bottom of the slope, looking for one with a large full nose and big hands.

  Ryan backed up. “This lady ain’t your wife?”

  Duke’s voice cracked down hard. “Not yet, she ain’t.”

  “Okay, mister. I got enough trouble on my hands with Comanche without getting a man riled about disrespect,” Ryan said and looked Duke in the eye. “All right boys!” he yelled. “They’re going to try and cut us up from the back. All you git back to the wagon and set yourself up for a long fight. These devils is hungry and they mean to go home with some cows.”

  The men began to pull back toward the wagon, running back in their high-heeled boots and ducking their heads against the wind.

  Ryan indicated he would pull further over to the right of where the Indians would try the slope again. Duke turned and looked at Sarah. “Did you see One Nest, Miss Sarah?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “I did.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  They waited for more than two hours, pulling up at the edges of their jackets to fight the wind, pulling their hats low, blowing on their frozen fingers, kicking the frozen ground with their feet. They never took their eyes off the party of Indians that stood still and remained in line before them.

  Ryan had bellowed for one of the cowhands to bring coffee up to the rim, and Sarah’s hands were so cold she could hardly hold the tin cup. She did not drink all of the coffee. She kept half of it and stuck her trigger finger into the warm liquid, grimacing in pain when the needles started biting the flesh back to feeling. But it worked, and once she had the right forefinger loosened up, she stuck it in her mouth to keep it warm.

  The sun began to beat down now and in the bright, clear day it warmed them up a little, but the winds never stopped and they could not move their positions, but had to remain belly-down on the frozen earth.

  The first party of Indians remained stationary. “You’d think they don’t have blood in their bodies the way they sit those ponies and take this wind with nothing more than buckskin and a blanket wrapped around them.” Without any warning, several of the Indians rode in toward the slope hard and fast, and began firing. They did not try to gain the hill; they didn’t even come close enough for range of their own weapons.

  “Crazy bastards!” Ryan said.

  “Which one is One Nest, Miss Sarah?” Duke asked.

  “That big one close to the middle, sitting the paint with the red blanket wrapped around him and the feathers flying.”

  “Are you sure?” Duke asked, squinting at the Indian. “I can hardly make out their faces.”

  “I’m sure."

  Duke pulled the Sharps up and examined it. “You want to try a shot at him with this? It’s got a little more range than yours.”

  “No, I’m going to kill him with my own gun,” she said.

  “Are you sure it’s him?” Duke asked again. “One Indian looks a lot like any other Indian, Miss Sarah.”

  “I said it was him,” Sarah replied and continued to stare at the line of Indians sitting absolutely still in the windswept clear blue day.

  Duke settled down beside her and waited. If it was One Nest, he thought, today might be the end of the search. He turned and looked at Sarah. Then she’d be his. “Miss Sarah, I hope you git him.”

  “I’ll get him.”

  There was a sudden burst of gunfire well in back of them and without turning they knew the second party of Indians was attacking the wagons and the cattle camp. Almost at once the first party broke from their solitary line before the slope and drove straight ahead. Aiming low and carefully, Sarah, Duke and Ryan began to ready themselves for the onrushing braves.

  Behind them the firing began to speed up, but it was still only coming from the Indians. The cowboys were holding their fire until they could be sure of bringing something down with their shells.

  The first party moved rapidly to the base of the slope and began to drive in for the ride upward. Sarah waited until she was sure. Yes, it was One Nest. She could never forget that face. Her eyes darted quickly to the Indian’s hands. Yes! And the fan of black hair, shoulder-length now tucked up in a feathered headdress. She wa
tched the face bounce in toward her. She leveled the carbine. Her vision danced. She saw the face of her son and the scalped head, and the body of Little Sue. She wiped the water out of her eyes. He was getting closer all the time. She flexed her hand and brought her finger down on the trigger. One Nest rode hard, leading the others, yelling now, his mouth open. Duke watched the Indian come forward, leading, screaming, and driving for the slope. He was torn between aiming for the head of the nearest Indian and wanting to look at Sarah.

  Ryan began to fire. A brave dropped out of the saddle. The Comanches began to fire now, their bullets whistling in the air. Someone screamed near the wagon, and then there followed a furious volley of shots.

  One Nest drew closer to the slope. They were at full gallop and the shooting behind them was at its height Ryan began to pour lead in a steady fire and a second brave slipped from the saddle.

  Gibson Duke turned suddenly and looked at Sarah. She had the gun up and aimed. What was he thinking! If the Indian was killed it would be over with and they could stop the crazy search.

  He clenched his teeth. He pulled down on the head of One Nest, who was within a hundred and fifty yards now. He sighted carefully. There was a sudden noise beside him and he saw One Nest slip from the saddle. He turned. Sarah had her head up over the rim and was looking down at the fallen figure of One Nest, spread-eagled on the hard ground.

  “You got him, Miss Sarah!” Duke yelled. “He’s down!”

  Sarah did not look up or reply. She quickly aimed her carbine and fired again. Duke, his thoughts running wild, turned back to the rim and began to fire. Again and again, he fired into the line of Indians as they advanced toward the slope. Ryan’s fire was steady.

  Behind them at the wagon the firing had settled down into a steady pattern. The gun in Duke’s hand jumped and bucked as he pulled himself up above the rim for better sighting and began wing-shooting at the passing Indians. They were milling now, wavering before the steady, sure fire of the three on the rim—and a quick glance back at the wagon area told Duke that the Comanche party was making no progress there. More than a dozen Indians had rolled to the bottom of the slope.

  Ryan gagged. Duke whirled around. The red-shirted man had dropped his gun and was holding his chest. He looked at Sarah and Duke, his eyes wide with surprise. With one hand he pulled himself up straight, made the sign of the cross over his bleeding chest, and fell to one side.

  Sara and Duke turned back to the rim. The Indians were bunching for a last drive to gain the slope. They fired into the line, horses and men alike, just so their slugs would find a mark.

  The line wavered again and the Indians turned and dropped back to the bottom of the slope. The spread of flats before them was dotted with empty Indian ponies standing patiently, waiting for their masters to come for them. The Indians fell back slowly, retreating to the very bottom of the slope, where they began to mill around, turning their fire in a concentrated effort at the top of the rim. Sarah and Duke ducked their heads behind cover and waited for the furious firing to stop, reloading quickly and then moving back up to the rim.

  The Indians were moving away. Several of them had taken the wounded on their ponies and were moving back out of range and gathering in the strays. Sarah and Duke turned their attention to the wagon. The second party had been stood off. In the distance they could see the Indians getting away from the wagon area fast.

  Duke got up and ran back toward the wagon. “Stay here!” he called to Sarah.

  Sarah remained still. She watched the Indians in the flats below circle and gather up the loose horses and then turn and start back down alongside the rim of the butte, moving away at a fast pace.

  Sarah stood up. She looked down at the sprawling bodies of the Indians and stepped over the edge. Her eyes bright and hard, she jumped down into the slide of the slope and ran, sliding to the bottom. She moved cautiously among the dead Indians, but hurrying from one to the other. She carried her Colt in her right hand and a buffalo skinning knife in her left. One by one she turned the Indians over and looked carefully at their faces.

  Duke stood on the rim with the remaining cowhands and watched her. She began to move frantically from one to the other. She began to kick the dead bodies. She began to spit on them, and then while Duke and the others watched, she slumped down and began to cry.

  Several of the men started down the slope, but Duke waved them back. “She’s got a reason, boys, and it wouldn’t do to try and talk to her now.”

  Duke stood alone and watched Sarah at the bottom of the slope. They had taken One Nest with them. They had taken their chief—and there was no way of knowing if he was dead or alive.

  “Cooks made some coffee, mister,” a cowhand said passing him with a horse on his way for the body of Ryan. “Damned if you don’t look froze out.”

  Duke mumbled something. He turned slowly and walked back toward the wagon. It wasn’t over. Twice now they had met One Nest and twice he had slipped through their fingers.

  No, it wasn’t over yet.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  They hung around the camp the rest of that day, helping to hack out graves for the five dead cowhands and Ryan. They didn’t bother with the Indians. By noon the vultures began to circle and fight and wail at the bottom of the rim. One of the cowhands walked over to see what was going on and came back, his face white and drawn. He didn't speak to anyone the rest of the day.

  Sarah would not speak to anyone. The men left her alone. They had too much trouble of their own to be concerned with the revenge of a woman, though one by one they came to her and thanked her for risking her life to warn them.

  That night Sarah slept in the wagon, and was warm for the first time in weeks. But she was not aware of the comfort. Her eyes were hard and bright. She stared at the top of the wagon for hours, reliving the vision of One Nest riding up the hill, reliving the moment, the exact instant that she fired and trying to pinpoint the exact spot where she had hit him.

  She could not say. She tried to tell herself over and over that she had hit him dead-center and that the braves had taken him only because he was their chief, but she could not make herself believe that it was true. Was he dead or alive?

  She rolled over. It did not matter. She would go on—if it took the rest of her life.

  She was awake when Duke came to the end of the wagon and spoke to her. “Near day, Miss Sarah.”

  “Saddle the roan for me, Mr. Duke. We can’t let them get too much of a head start on us, with the ground hard to leave a track in. We've got to get after them."

  Her voice was hard and the way Duke remembered it the first time he met her at the boardinghouse in Lister.

  He knew now as he had learned in the months they had been together, there was no use in trying to talk her out of it. “Yes, ma’am, Miss Sarah. You better git up now and have a good hot meal before we strike out.”

  They rode out of the camp with only a nod and wave to the hands that were readying the gear for a move back into Little Ben. Duke had overheard the foreman discussing how they should tell Ryan’s wife. He was glad that he didn’t have to go with them.

  They took coffee, sugar and beef strips, replaced their ammunition, and dropped off at the end of the butte where they had first climbed to the top. They scouted for half an hour and found the trail and began following the Indians at a fast trot. Sarah’s eyes were hard and bright and she did not talk to Duke the rest of the day. The wind had died a little, but they did not dare make a fire. They pulled at beef jerky and washed it down with ice-cold water and settled for the night against their horses. The wind picked up again about midnight and before dawn it began to snow.

  “Git up!” Sarah slapped Duke’s face. “The snows are coming and we’ll lose their trail!”

  Duke stood up and looked around him. The flats to the south had been transformed into a sheet of white. The wind picked up heavily and began to blow the snow. In half an hour there were two and a half inches of snow across the plains.

>   They couldn’t go on; it was impossible to track anything now. But Sarah would not stop. She saddled the roan and slung into the saddle. She started out. Duke grabbed the reins and pulled the pony to a stop. “You can’t go, Miss Sarah,” he said firmly.

  “Let go the horse, Mr. Duke,” she said.

  “You’ll have to shoot me, ma’am,” he said, looking her in the eye. He pointed to the northwest. “There’s big snow coming. If we don’t hightail it back to Little Ben right now and quick, the buzzards will be picking our bones clean the first hot spell.”

  Sarah drew the Colt and cocked it “Let go the leather, Mr. Duke. It’s going to be a hell of a lot tougher on One Nest and his Indians than on me.”

  “I said you’d have to shoot me, ma’am.” Duke said casually, and then quickly, he jerked the pony’s head and grabbed for the gun. Sarah fired, the bullet narrowly missing Duke’s head.

  He had the gun. She reached for the carbine in the boot. He reached up and pulled her out of the saddle, wrenching the rifle out of her hands. She struggled against him, quietly, fiercely with surprising strength. “Let me go,” she said between clenched teeth. “You’re going to have to let me go some time, and when you do, I’m leaving.”

  “Miss Sarah—” Duke said harshly. “Now you listen to me!”

  “I won’t!”

  He slapped her hard across the face. She took it like a man and glared at him. “Don’t—don’t do that again, Mr. Duke.”

  “I will, damn it, if I have to do it all day long until you get some sense in your head.”

  She broke away from him suddenly, pulling back and turning to point into the thickening snowstorm. Her voice was high-pitched, but she was not hysterical. “He’s out there! You hear that! He’s out there—and if he ain’t dead, he’s wounded so bad he won’t live through it. I want his hair, Mr. Duke! I want that Indian’s hair, and I’m going to have it!”