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Skinner Jake walked through most of the night.
The silver light shone on rocks and yucca plants, tufts of grass and the barrel of the Sharps that he carried. In the night, he could walk on forever without fear of being seen from distance. It was cold, too, and walking helped to keep him warm.
He walked all through the next day, too, with the wind battering his face and the sun beating down on his hat. The empty plain seemed to stretch forever in every direction, and in places there wasn't even a low hill or a big rock to break the awful emptiness.
A man's mind could wander anywhere out here on this plain, and walking alone in the emptiest place he'd ever seen, Jake's mind wandered to places that frightened him. He began to wonder if the cattle drivers and the Comanche and Cossatot Jim and all them others had just been things he imagined. All his memories seemed to become strange and unreal, like no other place and no other people could ever have existed, and he and this open, empty plain was all there was and all there ever had been and all there ever would be.
And in this state, Skinner Jake came to form a bond of friendship with Cossatot Jim that never existed before this day.
In his mind, he forgot — or ignored — that all that befell his band of buff hunters was caused by Cossatot Jim's vileness.
The emptiness of the world around him was filled now with one desire, one thought: Skinner Jake had it in his mind that whatever else befell him, he was here to save Cossatot Jim from them cattle drivers that was looking to turn him over to them Injuns.
He walked until he couldn't walk any farther, and when he stopped, he was convinced that he was lost.
But just after dusk, he heard horses passing somewhere near him. He was smart enough not to say anything, but he followed the sound of the horses as long as he could. When they at last outpaced him, and Skinner Jake could no longer follow the, he stopped for the night and slept on the cold, crusty sand.
When he woke at dawn, Skinner Jake saw the Comanche horses out on the horizon. Then he saw Rab Sinclair's outfit camped not far away.
To keep from being seen, he crawled on hands and knees fifty yards to a small outcropping of rocks, and there he waited.
He watched everything — Rab Sinclair riding out on the blue roan to meet the Comanche. The Comanche bringing Caleb out. Sinclair bringing Cossatot Jim.
He loaded the big Sharps rifle and spent some time working out his aim based on the distance and the wind. A good buffalo hunter had to be able to adjust for wind because his work was done in the wind. The parley was happening about two hundred and fifty yards from where Skinner Jake was hunkered down on the ground behind the low rocks. The Sharps rifle was accurate at two hundred and fifty yards, and it was the sort of shot that Skinner Jake had made many dozens of times.
Shooting buffalo at distance was not as easy a feat as one might think. Even with the heavy .52 caliber ball of the Sharps rifle, a buffalo was a difficult animal to bring down. You had to them in the right spot.
And hunting buffalo wasn't just a matter of shooting one and moving to the next.
A good buffalo hunter knew how to hit the matriarch cow of the herd to wound but not kill her.
Once she was wounded, the others would come around her and mill. Big, dumb beasts that they were, a buffalo hunter could sit on a knoll three hundred yards away and shoot buffalo all afternoon, and the other animals would never run. They'd just stand there by the wounded cow and mill waiting their turn until they were all dead on the ground.
Too many people thought buffalo running was just raising up a rifle and hitting a great big target on an empty plain. But it was far more than that. There was a precise skill to it. And Skinner Jake had that skill.
A shot from two hundred and fifty yards was no challenge for a good buff hunter.
When the Comanche chief leapt from his horse and took Cossatot Jim by the hair, Skinner Jake already had his aim, and the hammer on the Sharps was already cocked. The moment that Comanche raised his knife to Cossatot's head, Jake squeezed the trigger.
The shot broke the terrible quiet on the open plain so that even the wind seemed to stand still and gawk.
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Everything that happened next could not be stopped.
The only man on the plain who had the ability to communicate with both sides and prevent an open war on the Llano Estacado was gasping for his last breath as his fingers slid out of Cossatot Jim's hair.
The Comanche warriors expected duplicity, but when it came they were slower than Rab Sinclair to react.
Rab's hand dropped to his Colt Dragoon. He thumbed the leather thong off the hammer, and as he slid the barrel clear of the holster he cocked the hammer all the way back. Gunmetal cleared leather just as the six mounted Comanche near him began to react.
The first warrior tossed his lance up in the air to change his grip on it, and he let out a war whoop to freeze the blood.
Caleb Morgan's horse had started to dance, and his back was turned when the Comanche warrior darted forward, his lance raised up. Rab lifted the heavy Dragoon and fired. He was too close to miss. The .44 caliber ball smashed into the Comanche's exposed ribs, knocking him from his horse.
"Ride for those rocks!" Rab shouted to Caleb.
The boy still had hold of the sorrel's lead, and now he cut fast out across the plain, racing toward the rocks from where the shot had come.
The five remaining Comanche braves went for Rab Sinclair. Rab squeezed his knees, and Cromwell bounded — not away, but directly toward the Comanche.
Ride into them!
In close combat against overwhelming numbers, the best way was to get in as close as possible. If Rab was in tight among the Comanche, they could not propel or jab with their spears. Their fists would have small effect. Yet his Dragoon could still be employed.
The only word for what came next was slaughter. Armed with the Dragoon against enemies who were armed with just lances and knives, Rab Sinclair had the better hand even if there were more Comanche.
One Comanche swung his lance, and Rab absorbed the blow of its shaft on his shoulder, ducking his head clear. He thumbed back the hammer on the Dragoon and pressed the barrel into the Comanche's stomach. He pulled the trigger with devastating effect on the Comanche.
Another Comanche warrior on Rab's other side grabbed at Rab's buckskin coat, but Cromwell seemed to sense the danger and reared. Rab held tight with his knees and wrapped the fingers of his free hand around the pommel. The Comanche lifted off his horse and then fell to the ground, trapped between Cromwell and his own horse, and knocked stupid when one or both of the horses danced and hooves landed on his head.
Another of the Comanche warriors tried to get near enough to jab with his lance, but the crushing mass of horses moving about like boiling water prevented him from getting so close.
Rab saw the threat and raised up the Dragoon. The Comanche shied away and covered his face, but Rab's target was the man's chest — the Dragoon spit smoke and flame and now another man was dead or dying in among the mass of horse and battle.
Cossatot Jim did not need to be told that a miracle had come to save him, and he did not need encouragement to seize the opportunity.
Cossatot was running across the open plain in the wake of Caleb's horse.
The rock outcropping, really nothing more than a pile of rocks no taller than a man's knees, would provide only the smallest of defensive breastworks. Men and horses would all be exposed there. But it was a place to go.
Three of the Comanche who rode out to the parley were still horsed and in the fight.
Rab waved the Dragoon toward them and fired one shot that went through the mass of men and horse without hitting anything.
The Comanche were armed only with lances and knives. There might be rifles back in the camp, but none of those who had ridden out had a firearm among them.
The initial confusion of the fight wore away, and the three Comanche still mounted near Sinclair rallied.
&nb
sp; One charged Sinclair with his lance held high overhead and gripped to throw.
Sinclair aimed the Dragoon in his direction and fired.
The shot missed, but the Comanche turned and ducked when Rab shot, throwing himself off balance. Cromwell, seeking a path out of the fight, darted forward, and Rab swung the heavy Colt so that the barrel landed on the jaw of the Comanche.
The man plummeted from the saddle.
The remaining two Comanche charged now, both of them, but Cromwell was already at a gallop, racing to catch up to Caleb Morgan, who was riding the buckskin and leading the sorrel.
The blue roan passed by Cossatot Joe whose hands were still bound. He was running as hard as he could for the rocks.
Rab heard the war shouts of the Comanche behind him.
And then he saw the man at the rocks who had fired the shot that ignited this cauldron.
Skinner Jake took aim behind the Sharps rifle, and for an instant Rab thought the buffalo hunter was going to shoot him from the saddle.
But a puff of white smoke escaped from the Sharps, and one of the two Comanche behind Rab fell from his horse when the .52 caliber ball from the Sharps caught him in the chest.
The sole Comanche still mounted and in the fight now broke off, riding back toward the camp where the rest of the Indians were gathering and mounting, ready to come to the fight.
The blue roan raced into the cluster of rocks, and with the roan still slowing its pace, Rab leapt from the saddle. The roan wheeled and came back, and Rab reached into the saddle bags, hurrying to reload the Colt Dragoon. It was laborious, pouring out powder and ramming home each individual lead ball, holding the grip against his hip to get the right leverage on it. Rab had heard about gunsmiths who converted the cylinders on the old Dragoons to accept rifle cartridges, and he now bitterly wished he'd had someone convert his old six shooters.
Rab glanced over his shoulder and saw that the Comanche in the camp were forming up, preparing to make a charge.
His own outfit was not yet to the rocks. The shot came unexpected. The violence came and went with speed, and Vazquez, O'Toole, and Kuwatee found themselves rooted, watching to see how it transpired. They were just now darting out across the plain to the cluster of rocks where Skinner Jake, Caleb Morgan, and Rab Sinclair were gathered and where Cossatot Jim was making his run.
"I told you to stay with the chuck wagon," Rab said to Skinner Jake.
"I couldn't let you turn Cossatot over to them Comanche, not knowing what they'd do to him."
"I should shoot you now," Rab said.
"You don't want to shoot me now," Skinner Jake said. "You're going to need my rifle in about five minutes when them Comanche decide to charge us."
Cossatot Jim was still running for the rocks, but the others were now riding up and dropping down out of their saddles.
"I knew when I saw that shot from the rocks it had to be you, Jake," O'Toole said. "Only a buffalo hunter would make that shot."
Skinner Jake grinned, but O'Toole wasn't giving him a compliment.
"It was touch and go whether we'd get out of this without having to fight them Comanche, but you made sure of it, you damn fool," O'Toole continued. "You should have stayed with the wagon. You've risked all our lives for that no-account reprobate."
The Indians at their camp were massing for an attack, but Rab watched as one of them rode hard away from the camp.
"I'd wager he's gone off to the main body," Rab said. "Who knows how many he might bring back with him."
"This is no place for any man who wants to live," Kuwatee said. "We should make tracks."
"What about these two?" Vazquez said, nodding to Skinner Jake, and the others knew he meant also Cossatot Jim who was not yet with them but getting close.
Vazquez, O'Toole, Kuwatee, and Rab Sinclair each brought a horse and a spare mount. Caleb was mounted on the buckskin, but the sorrel was now added to the remuda. But there were no more saddles, and the spare mounts were all packed with provisions.
"Ain't spare horses for them," O'Toole said. "I say we leave 'em. Skinner Jake wanted to fight the Comanche, we can let him."
"Wait a minute," Skinner Jake said, his eyes full of sudden fear. "You can't leave us."
Rab was still reloading the Colt Dragoon. He was just now opening the tin with the percussion caps. He glanced at the others, trying to read in their faces where their minds were on this.
Rab Sinclair was no leader of men. He'd paid these men to ride protection on a herd of cattle, but paying men was different from leading them. Vazquez had led posses. O'Toole was never more than a soldier who followed orders until he decided not to be that anymore. Kuwatee was his own man, neither taking nor giving orders, very much like Rab himself. Rab could make decisions for himself, but he generally thought that other men should make their own decisions — especially in a tight spot like this.
But someone had to decide the next course of action, and Rab Sinclair was the man paying the wages.
There was every reason to leave Skinner Jake and Cossatot Jim to whatever fate they could work out for themselves or the Comanche could work out for them. Cossatot Jim was a horse thief, and he'd earned himself a hanging. The truth of it was, he'd also earned himself whatever justice the Comanche wanted to give him when he violated and murdered the squaw and the child.
And Skinner Jake wasn't much better. He'd left the chuck wagon after Rab was clear with him not to, and now he'd put every one of their lives in danger.
But there was no more opportunity to negotiate with the Comanche. Trust was broken, whether it was Rab's fault or not. And the only man who could negotiate, Pounding Fists, was lying dead with Skinner Jake's .52 caliber bullet in his chest.
"You shouldn't ought to have come back here," Rab said to Skinner Jake. "You came back here on your own, with no promise from any of us that we'd help you or protect you. You've made your choice in this, and we'll not die here with you just because you're a white man and those men over yonder are Comanche."
"You can't leave us here," Skinner Jake said, and he turned the Sharps rifle toward Rab Sinclair. "Throw down that six shooter, and I'll be obliged to take your horse."
The Sharps rifle was loaded and cocked, and Rab stood there holding a Dragoon with no percussion caps on it. None of the other men had drawn their rifles from their scabbards, and all of their six guns were still holstered.
"Any one of you men tries to draw, I'll shoot Sinclair first and then work it out with you. You might be surprised how well this old buff skinner can use the butt end of a rifle."
Now Cossatot Jim was running up, gasping for breath.
"Unloose my hands!" Cossatot Jim demanded. "And give me a rifle for God's sake. Them Comanche are ridin' down on us!"
Rab glanced up. Sure enough, those Comanche who had been encamped were crossing the field now. They were not quite a mile out, and they were not charging. But they were forming up in their battle line, lances and bows ready.
Skinner Jake held the Sharps one-handed at his hip, the barrel still accurately pointing at Rab, and with his free hand he drew a knife from his belt. He held the knife and Cossatot cut the rope binding his wrists.
Cossatot Jim didn't need anyone to explain the situation. It was easy enough to see what was transpiring.
Jim took the reins of the bay horse that O'Toole was riding, and he slid the Yellow Boy from the scabbard.
"You take them hawsses, and I swear to you I will find you and put a bullet in you," Rab said. "Them Comanche will never get to you before I do."
"You got to stop worrying about me and start worrying about them Comanche getting to you," Cossatot grinned as he swung himself into O'Toole's saddle. He wheeled the horse, and charged away.
Skinner Jake reached up and took Cromwell's reins. He positioned the horse so that he could keep the Sharps on Rab even as he climbed into the saddle.
The horse danced nervously as Skinner Jake sat into the saddle. He tugged the reins, but Cromwell shook his head.
The blue roan was gentle for women and children, but not many men other than Rab Sinclair sat a saddle on that horse.
Skinner Jake gave the roan a kick with his heels, and Cromwell bounded forward about ten yards, and there he bucked hard and reared back. Skinner Jake still had the Sharps rifle in his hand, and when Cromwell reared the buffalo hunter reached for the pommel and missed. Cromwell came down and bucked again like he'd never had a rider on his back before. The second bucking did it. Skinner Jake dropped the Sharps and went headlong off the roan's back.
But it was too late.
The Comanche were clearing the ground too fast, their horses driving like the devil.
O'Toole unstrapped the pack off one of the horses and looked at Caleb.
"Get on your horse and ride like hell, son," O'Toole shouted to him.
Vazquez pulled the Yellow Boy from his scabbard and dropped the lever to chamber a round. He sighted out a target among the front riders of the Comanche, and he let loose a bullet.
Kuwatee, too, fired his rifle.
"Everyone ride!" Rab shouted, making a run toward the blue roan.
O'Toole mounted the horse that he'd stripped the pack off, gripped its mane and set the horse west at a gallop, following behind Cossatot Jim, who was already a hundred yards ahead of them, and Caleb.
The pack horses started to run, spooked by the war whoops from the oncoming Comanche.
Vazquez and Kuwatee both got off a couple more shots, but the mounted and rode out hard past the blue roan that stood waiting for Rab.
As Sinclair reached the horse, Skinner Jake charged him with his knife.
Rab dodged the knife and punched Jake hard in the face.
The Comanche were so near that Rab could feel the ground shuddering below his feet.
He took the blue roan's reins and started to swing himself into the saddle when a Comanche with a red and white painted face swung a club that cracked Rab Sinclair in the skull, and everything else went black.
A Vast and Desolate Land Page 13
