Commanche Vengeance Read online

  Duke continued to ride, the hair on the back of his neck stiffening, the muscles in his legs jerking slightly.

  “I’m warning you, mister!” the voice screamed. “Turn around and git off that horse!”

  “What are you going to do?” Sarah asked in a whisper, not daring to glance at him.

  “Keep riding, Miss Sarah. Git up to the corner of that building there, and when I say the word, git up the alley.”

  “You can’t fight him—”

  “Do what I say, damn it!” Duke demanded. “Here it comes—now.”

  They were nearing the corner of the building. Sarah could see the alley leading to the rear of the structure.

  “I’m going to count three, mister!” the redhead yelled.

  “Go!” Duke snapped at Sarah. She jerked her reins hard and the roan leaped out of the main street into the protection of the alley.

  At the instant Duke yelled for Sarah to gain cover, he slipped his saddle and fell flat and hard into the dust, the carbine up and ready. “Drop your iron, Red,” he called. “I got witnesses to prove you threatened me— and I got the drop on you. Now drop your iron!”

  The crowd around the young gunfighter faded into the sunbaked street and found refuge in buildings and behind wagons. Suddenly there was silence—dead, baking, fly-buzzing silence and the redhead was alone. Duke pulled down on the young man’s head. “I’m giving you a count of three, Red—drop your iron and walk away or I’ll kill you.”

  A fly landed on Duke’s nose and crawled around leisurely in the sweat-grimed creases of the cow man’s face. “One!”

  Red did not move.

  “Two!”

  Red’s hands began to inch for his gun.

  Duke did not count three. The young man drew and Duke shot him neatly between the eyes. The bright new pearl-handled Colt had not even cleared leather. Duke got up slowly and walked toward the figure in the dust. Slowly the others began to edge out and walk toward the dead gunfighter.

  Duke stared at the first of the arrivals. “I shot him in a fair fight. You all saw me try and walk away from him, and then I gave him a chance to drop his gun—”

  “You don’t need to do no explainin’ to us, mister,” said an old man. “Red here’s been asking for this a long time.”

  “He got any folks?” Duke asked.

  “Not’s anybody knows. He drifted into town about six months ago and just been hanging around working once in a while ever since.”

  Duke nodded. “That’s all there is, I reckon,” he said quietly.

  He turned and walked back to the edge of the building where Sarah waited for him. She handed him the reins to the black without a word. Their eyes met for a moment and there was a flicker of warmth in Sarah’s glance as Duke climbed into the saddle.

  He turned and looked back down the middle of the street. “I think we better get ourselves a little coffee, beans and salt, and them guns, and keep moving, Miss Sarah,” he said. “Everybody’s got friends—some kind of friends that would hate to see you git killed.”

  “Doesn’t it matter that it was a fair fight?” Sarah asked.

  “No, ma’am. It don’t matter.”

  Sarah nodded. “There’s a hardware store down the street.” She pulled out the little bag of double eagles, held back two and handed the rest to Duke. “You get two of the best guns you can, Mr. Duke, and another carbine. I’ll find a store and buy the other things.”

  “In an hour.” He nodded. “On the west side of town.”

  “In an hour.” They rode off. The crowd of men had broken up. The body of Red had been removed.

  An hour and a half later, Sarah sat beneath a cottonwood tree and waited for Duke. She stirred the coffee gently and then rolled up the legs of the new trousers she had bought for herself. To one side lay two new shirts and a thick fleece jacket, for herself, and a heavy blanket for Duke.

  Duke arrived in a few minutes and they sat in silence drinking coffee and examining the brand new Colts and the fine Sharps. Sarah tested her gun and was satisfied, blushing at the admiration in Duke’s face for her accuracy. Duke, when trying his own gun out, tried to outshoot her, but could do no better.

  “Any reason for us to stay around here?” Sarah asked.

  “I can’t think of any, Miss Sarah, now that we can’t find any kind of work—”

  Sarah nodded. “I’ve been thinking, Mr. Duke, about what you said—you know, hide hunting.” Sarah handled the Sharps. “We could try our hand at it—I think I would prefer that to trying my hand at something in a town.”

  “It’s a good idea, ma’am, and we ain’t got too much money left.”

  “I wasn’t thinking so much about the money as the chances of getting One Nest during the summer, when he could be spread over hell and gone. But in the winter, when the snow comes, he’ll more’n likely head for the warm places, and there ain’t too many places he could go to git warm.”

  “You mean to store up for a winter search, ma’am?” Duke asked.

  Sarah pulled the roan around. “A winter search, Mr. Duke.”

  Duke pulled the brim of his hat down low. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. In the saddle, they leaned into the sun reluctantly and left the shade of the cottonwood clump. “Might try for bluffer northwest, Miss Sarah,” Duke said. “Up toward the South and North Platte and around Frenchman Creek.”

  “Anything you say, Mr. Duke,” Sarah said, feeling a peculiar lightheartedness. Later in the day, she thought about the redheaded young man and Duke, and the easy way he had stood up to the bully, Stu. Sarah loathed and detested violence, but she recognized courage when she saw it, and the warm admiring glance she had for Duke, which he did not see, was the look of approval a woman in doubt will finally give a man she has begun to like.

  CHAPTER TEN

  They moved easily, drifting before the winds when it was possible, wearing handkerchief masks when they had to fight the fine powdery dust blowing head-on. They made camp often, not pushing their horses, riding in the coolest parts of the day and breaking regularly for a two- to three-hour midday rest, sleeping in the shade of their ponies when they could not find cover.

  They were nine days out of Dodge City when they began to pick up their first buffalo, a small stand that was working into the grass well upwind of them. Duke cautioned Sarah to remain quiet while he rode down close to them and looked them over. He slipped his saddle a thousand yards down from the contented animals, broke out the brand-new Sharps, sighted down on a young calf and fired.

  From her position Sarah saw the animal drop as if felled by an ax. The herd did not even look up. One of the old bulls was only a few feet away and was curious enough to walk over and smell the dead calf, but none of the others bothered.

  Sarah watched, and unconsciously nodded her appreciation for the manner in which Duke had made his move against the small stand without disturbing them. She was about to move out into the open when she heard the unmistakable click of a cocked gun.

  “Just don’t move or make a motion to your partner. And sit still!”

  The voice was old, but hard. Sarah remained motionless, watching Duke return from his position in the grass, glancing back over his shoulder to look at the stand and then looking around the flat country. He made his black and turned at a trot back to Sarah.

  Sarah's eyes traveled to the gun. He had slipped the rifle back into the boot and he was riding straight in the saddle, not aware of danger, and not in position to draw his Colt. She stared at him, frowning, straining every muscle in her face to warn him of the danger, but the cowman grinned in return, thinking about the sun and the way it made her frown.

  “At least we’ll eat tender beef tonight, Miss Sarah—” Duke began.

  The voice in back of Sarah cut him off. “Step down, gents, or I'll take both of you at once with a load of buckshot."

  Duke jerked up straight in the saddle and looked beyond Sarah into the shadows of the cottonwood. He squinted his eyes.

  There was moveme
nt behind Sarah and the owner of the voice stepped out “I said step down, gents!” He was an old man, sweat-grimed and filthy, in buckskin whose fringe was long since gone. He wore a Colt .45 in a beaded holster and a sweat-stained, weatherbeaten old hat His beard was a full foot long and came to a curious point on his chest. The beard was jet-black, and what little hair Duke and Sarah could see at the edges of his hat was snow-white. He smiled, but there was no friendliness in his eyes, the coldest and blackest Sarah had ever seen. The shotgun leveled on them was old and steady.

  “Drop your irons in the dust and easy does it, gents,” he said with a slight nod of his head.

  Sarah and Duke unbuckled the new belts and dropped their guns to the ground. “Now step away from them, easy-like.”

  They moved away.

  “If you’re going to shoot, do it.” Duke said. “But this is a woman—”

  “Woman!” he looked closely at Sarah. “Damned if it ain’t!”

  “That don’t excuse you pulling down on us.” Duke said.

  “What’cha doing out here in the middle of nowheres?”

  “None of your business.” Duke replied testily. “You better shoot—”

  “Aw, hell, mister,” the old man said, lowering the gun, “I don’t go around shooting people. Leastwise women.” He stepped forward and offered his hand to Duke. “My names Slater—”

  Duke moved to accept the old man’s hand and then quickly knocked him down and grabbed for the shotgun.

  The old man shook his head and felt his jaw. “Damn, you hit hard,” he said, and started to get up.

  “Sit still,” Duke said, and Sarah looked at him quickly. But she sighed silently to herself, seeing that Duke’s anger was fading fast at the sudden switch in the old man’s attitude. “How come you to have thrown down on us like that?” Duke demanded. “We didn’t do nothing to you.”

  The old man frowned. “You damned fool.” he said, and then glanced at Sarah. “I beg your pardon ma’am; didn’t mean to cuss.”

  “Get up,” Duke said wearily.

  “I been scouting this stand of bluffer for four days.”

  “They belong to the man that gets them,” Duke said. He lowered the gun and extended his hand to the old man and helped him to his feet. “All I did was shoot a little eating meat.”

  “Ain’t the meat I begrudge you, son,” the old man said, still feeling his jaw; “It’s the Indians your shot will bring down.”

  Duke shook his head and handed the gun over. “I sure made a mess of things, didn’t I?”

  “You damn sure might of. I coulda been skinning out by now instead of sitting around on my hind end these last four days if it weren’t for the Cheyenne,” the old man complained. “Been sitting over that ridge yonder waiting for ’em to get out of the country so I could get about my work, but they got some kind of medicine they’re tending to on the flats down toward the Republican River and ain’t nothing going to move them until they’re ready.”

  “You think they heard the shot?”

  The old man made a face of disgust “After blasting away with that thing of yourn, and the Injun partly downwind, what do you think.” He shook his head. “My goodness, it’s been a long time since I seen a woman that looked purty in man’s pants.”

  “Careful,” Duke said.

  “I’m careful,” the old man said. “Touchy, ain’t he?” he said to Sarah.

  “And you, Mr. Slater?” Sarah said with a soft smile.

  “You’re right ma’am, I guess we all are.” He turned suddenly and moved with amazing speed and grace for an old man, and right before their eyes disappeared into the brush. He reappeared a moment later and made a gesture toward the river. “They’re coming, all right, mister.”

  Duke had slipped into his saddle and now stood above Slater. “If Cheyennes are coming, we’re leaving,” he said. “You coming along?”

  “Soon as I can get that calf beef you dropped.”

  “Where’s your horse?”

  “I got three—two pack animals—over the side of the trees. Didn’t you see me when you came over the rise?” Duke shook his head. “Disgusting, that’s what it is. I coulda had you clean shot before you knew what hit you if I was mean.”

  “Go get your horses. I’ll get the calf.” Duke said.

  “Watching you sneak up on that stand, you must have done a bit of bluffer skinning yourself at one time or other,” Slater said casually, not making any move away from them.

  “Listen, are there Indians coming or not?” Duke demanded nervously.

  “I said they was, didn’t I?”

  “Then let’s get moving.”

  Slater looked up at Sarah and grinned. “Ve-ry touchy—ve-ry touchy.” He dropped back into the brush and trees and disappeared again with the same speed and grace.

  “I’ll have to spook that herd,” Duke said. “You better stay with me, Miss Sarah.”

  They rode out into the sun again, driving straight for the stand of buffalo. They got no closer than two thousand yards when the animals bolted, jerking around in a circle after a maddened old bull, and then broke away to the north directly for the Indians.

  There was no time to do a proper job of butchering the calf, but by the time Slater pulled up, Duke had taken the hindquarters and forked them over one of the pack horses of the old hunter.

  Duke rode to the crest of the ridge that looked out over the grass flats and saw the trail of dust the stampeding herd of buffalo had lifted. He watched for a long time and then saw the party of six full-dressed Cheyenne sprinting toward the ridge and the thick bunch of cottonwood trees. Duke spurred the black and rode back to Sarah and the old man. “They’re coming hard, and we’d better get out or fight.”

  “How many?” Slater asked.

  “Six.”

  The old man nodded. “We better run. If they was just curious they woulda just sent out two or three. But whatever they’re powwowing about over to the river, they don’t want nobody to know about it. This party of six means business—and if they don’t come back, then there’ll be six times six to come lookin’ for ’em, I reckon.” He handed one of the lead ropes of the pack horses to Duke. “We’d be better off if we struck south and to the west, gettin’ away from the river area and what’s going on.”

  “Let’s go, then.”

  The old man rode a fine sorrel that had energy and speed. They broke away from the ridge and-turned due south, their dust kicking up high and leaving a trail the Cheyenne could follow if they wanted to. But neither Duke nor Slater felt the Indians would follow.

  They rode hard for several hours, leaving the sandy ridge and grass country and hitting the hard flatlands beyond the edges of Beaver River tributaries and slowed to a walk, breathing their horses.

  It was dark when the old man, who had ridden ahead of them, pulled into a small box canyon created by two small buttes and a sagebrush thicket at one end. “They won’t come after us now, so we might as well take this place for the night,” he commented. Without another word, he began making preparations for a fire.

  Sarah was tired, but she began to inspect the hindquarters of the buffalo calf, skinning it out more carefully and preparing it for cooking. Duke took care of the horses, staking them out in grass and near water and bringing all their saddles and gear close into the fire.

  The night closed in heavy and black and the night noises took over the silences that lay between the three riders. Off some distance a coyote yelled and moved on. There was the rustle of a small animal in the thicket of sage. The stars dropped out of the black velvet overhead. Sarah put on coffee water and the three sat down to stare into the flames and think their own thoughts, Sarah occasionally prodding a thick cut of the beef hung over the low, hot coal fire the old hunter had made.

  They ate in silence, and Duke was the only one to speak as he wiped his hands on his shirt and reached for the carbine. “I’ll take the first watch,” he said and moved off to the head of the canyon.

  After a mome
nt, Slater raised his head. “Been married long?”

  “He’s not my husband,” Sarah said.

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am,” Slater said, respect and apology in his voice. “Good night.” He rolled over where he sat and was asleep in thirty seconds.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Cheyenne party of six did not follow them. But Sarah, Duke and Slater remained in the protected position of the small canyon for the next two days, taking turns on guard, eating and sleeping. When the last of the calf buffalo was gone and there was still no sign of the Indians, Duke and Slater seemed satisfied they were in the clear.

  “Well,” Slater said, “looks like we can move on our ways. Though I sure hated to see that stand of bluffer stampede away from me. Been hunting meat all spring and never hit more than twenty or thirty.” He shook his head. “Sure beats me how a man’s luck can run sometimes.”

  “Were sorry about messing up your hunt party, Slater,” Duke said.

  There had been very little talk among the three during their wait for the Cheyenne to show up. After Slater’s one question to Sarah about marriage, he had clammed up and not opened his mouth in a personal way to either of them again. And when Sarah and Duke offered no explanations, nor questioned him, their remarks were confined to chores and the simple scouting sorties made from the canyon to search out a noise or an animal cry that did not sound exactly right.

  Slater had begun to load his pack animals. “Look here,” he said suddenly. “Where you two aim to go from here?”

  Duke was slow in answering. “We thought we’d try a little hide-hunting.”

  Slater turned and examined Duke a long time. “I don’t see no gear for hide hunting.”

  “I got guns and skinning knives.”