by J. T. Edson
Dusty was determined that the Apaches should believe he meant to spend the night at the foot of the slope. He formed the circle by the wide stream, not even fording it. The women followed his orders and began to prepare their fires while the men tended to their stock.
Like a black dressed ghost the Kid was gone. He went astride his huge white stallion straight up the slope and over the top. There were no shots, no sounds to show that the Apaches were waiting. Time dragged by, the tension could almost be felt as the men ate their meals then moved towards their groups. Jim Lourde and his boss driver rousted out spare harness and prepared improved ways of fixing it to the big Conestoga wagons. All was ready as the sun went down and threw the camp under the slope into pitch blackness.
The Kid appeared, first on top of the rim then coming down. He waved his hat around his head to the watching men.
‘Get set!’ Dusty yelled. ‘Roll them out! Red get your team up there. Mark move your boys in. Louise, tell Jim Lourde to have his men harnessing.’
There was a rush to obey but it came as a disciplined rush without panic or fluster. The first wagon was double-teamed and Gantry sat on the box, his long-thonged whip in his hand. Behind him Lourde and his party, all experienced bull-whackers, hitched a team ahead of the six heavy horses which hauled the second wagon.
Sitting the wagon box Gantry swung his whip and bawled out weird bull-whacker curses. The two teams flung their weights into the harness and started forward, splashing through the stream then forward towards the slope. At first it was easy, then the animals hit the slope and started to fight their way up. At the two steepest points waited Red Blaze and Mark Counter, stripped to the waist and with a party of half a dozen of the biggest and strongest men of the train ready to help the wagons over.
The wagon inched its way up the slope, Red and four of his men flung themselves at the spokes, straining and shoving, doing what they could to ease the strain. The men were to work in teams getting what rest they could in between the wagons crawling up.
At last the wagon’s team reached the top, their hooves churning the ground as they sought to drag the wagon the last feet. Then it was on top and Raines stood by to show Gantry where he wanted it.
‘Leave plenty of room, Colonel,’ Dusty called, coming up the slope on his big paint stallion. ‘I don’t want the back of the circle too close to the top. Make sure there’s enough room for them all to get in.’
Raines nodded and went with the wagon showing Gantry where he wanted it left. The first wagons up would be his own and Raines knew they would be bearing the brunt of the attack very soon. He placed the wagon broadside on to the edge of the slope, the rest would form a circle around it, provided they could all be brought up in time. He could already hear the sounds of the next wagon moving up the slope as he watched a party of women, working under Miss Considine and Mrs. Lourde, stripping off the white canopy to stow it safely under the wagon in the possum belly. The wood from the possum belly was piled at the side to act as a protective barricade. The canopy would burn too easily to be left on its supports where a fire-arrow might strike.
‘Reckon they’ll hear us, Lon?’ asked Dusty as the Kid prepared to pull out for a scout.
‘It’s not likely,’ drawled the Kid. ‘They’re all about four mile off and making their magic ready to come on us. Haven’t even got any scouts out in case we get lucky, see one and don’t come up.’
On the slope wagon after wagon rolled slowly up. It was not easy and did not get so with practice. The harnessing of the spare team was done faster but the stock grew tired for it was hard work hauling these wagons up the slope. Dusty came down and suggested the teams which had been used were held clear of the others so that fresh animals could be used while they lasted. This was done but there were only enough spare draught animals for the first three wagons, then the other teams would need to be used again.
By the time half the Conestogas had gone up Dusty gave the order for the lighter wagons, the buggies and buckboards to move up. This was classed as woman’s work usually for they mostly did the driving of the lighter vehicles. Tonight a man was at the reins and others helped shove from behind.
So it went on through the night. At the bottom fires burned but the top stayed in complete darkness. Meals and coffee were snatched when the working parties could find the time. The teams on the slope coming down in pairs but Mark and Red did not leave their places and Louise took food to them.
The stock was moved up next, except for the harness teams.
In the dark men and boys worked to hobble every animal to prevent stampede and panic when the attack came. In this they were lucky, for their cattle were eastern bossies and not the longhorn of Texas which would never have stood for such an indignity.
There was danger in the work, much danger, particularly for Mark and Red’s groups. If the harness of any team snapped the animals would be thrown into wild confusion and the wagon’s weight drag them back down the slope again over the pushing men. No amount of human muscle could prevent that happening, certainly not the strength of four men.
However, through the foresight of Jim Lourde and Tom Blade, when they fitted out for the trip, all the leatherwork was of good quality and held under the strain.
Through the night they worked on and below the fires winked out as the women stayed at the top when they came up. The last four wagons were the source of most anxiety to the drivers and the men on the slopes. The teams were tired now every animal weary and exhausted on its legs. Dusty, who had never seemed to be still all the night, came down and sent every man to the places to help Mark and Red’s teams. For all that it did not make matters any better as the last of the train creaked their way up the slope.
Dusty threw glances at the sky, seeing the first lightening in the east and knowing time was fast running out on them. He saw the last of the wagons with its leg weary team start forward. Things were going to be close, real close.
On top, by the Raines wagon, Louise and the old negress laid out bullets for the Henry and Winchester rifles, combustible cartridge packets ready opened, powder flasks and bullet bags. The Kid stood by the wagon peering into the darkness, his old yellow boy in his hands, watching all the time.
‘Can’t we women go down and help push the wagons?’ Louise asked.
‘Do what Dusty told you, gal, and don’t try thinking for yourself,’ growled the Kid without taking his eyes from the open range ahead.
Louise opened her mouth then closed it again. At other times she could be talkative and get answers, now things were too serious. She looked around and saw the other women also preparing for the fight which was to come.
It was now a grim race against time. The last wagon crawling slowly up the slope. Inch by inch it crawled upwards. Inch by inch that bright glow in the east lifted from the horizon, getting brighter by the minute.
‘Push!’ Mark roared, throwing his giant strength on to the spokes of the wagon wheel. ‘Push!’
Then the team was on top, feet churning and sending dirt flying as with a last surge of human and animal muscle the wagon rolled after them. The driver sent it forward fast and swung it to block the last gap. Eager female hands were ready to unhitch the team while men waited to attend to them, water then hobble them and let them rest.
Mark joined Dusty, drawing on his shirt. He was sweat soaked, leg weary and feeling as tired as when he rode for twenty-four hours in the drag of a trail herd, tailing up the exhausted steers as they dropped. All through the night he and the equally exhausted-looking Red stayed at their place, never leaving it and helping with each wagon.
‘Looks like we made it, Dusty,’ Mark said, tucking his shirt in.
‘Looks like we did,’ agreed Dusty, watching Red draw his shirt on. ‘You’ve done well, real well.’
The two Texans could have asked for no greater praise or thanks. They took the coffee Louise brought them, went to the side of the Raines wagon and sat down. Dusty made a circle of the train to see everything wa
s ready. It would soon be light enough for the Apaches to see they’d been tricked. Then there was going to be some hell stirred up around the top of the slope.
‘You pair ate yet?’ he asked when he returned, satisfied there was nothing more he could do but wait.
‘Just now coming,’ Red replied. ‘Cousin Dusty, you’re the hardest cuss I know, up to and including Uncle Devil and Cousin Betty.’
‘You’re just saying that ’cause it’s true,’ grunted the Kid. ‘Anyways, Betty Hardin’s got him all licked to a frazzle for meanness.’
‘There’s none of the three of them to improve the others,’ Mark put in.
For all that any of the three speakers would have given his life for Ole Devil Hardin, his granddaughter, Betty or the Rio Hondo gun wizard who ruled the floating outfit.
Dusty ignored his friends but took the plate of food Louise brought to him. Even while he fed Dusty watched the range. There was no sign of the Apaches and he wondered if they would come. He hoped they would, for if the attack failed now the warriors would hang on the flanks of the train and pick another time to make their attack, a time when the train was less prepared.
Around the train people watched the open land, one thought in every mind. Was the extra work justified. Did they really need to take the chances and tire the stock just to reach the top of the slope before morning.
If the thought worried Dusty as he stood by Raines after finishing his meal, it did not show. In his mind he was satisfied the risk justified itself. They were at the top and waiting for the attack when it came. If it did not, all they were out would be the day they’d need to rest the stock. If they had not climbed the slope in the dark they would be coming up in the daylight when the Apaches hit. Then the chances of survival were not great. It was a calculated risk to ensure the safety of the train and Dusty did not regret any part of it.
The sun rose and the range around the train showed wide, clear—and empty of any sign of Apaches. A woman came to ask for permission to light a fire and make a meal but Dusty shook his head.
‘Not yet, ma’am,’ he said.
Louise watched the woman walk away and saw in it another sign of the trust the people had in the small Texan. They were willing to accept his decisions without argument. She turned back to where the Kid looked across the range and could not resist the chance to get her own back on him.
‘Where are they?’ she asked.
‘Out there, gal,’ drawled the Kid without looking at her. ‘Making their medicine afresh to see how they’ve gone wrong, seeing’s how we spoiled their last medicine by coming here in the dark.’
‘Some prophet,’ she scoffed, still watching the Kid and not the range ahead. ‘You’re without honor in your country this ti—’
The words died away for suddenly the range ahead was swarming with Apaches. They came from out of the ground almost, or so it seemed to the girl. Squat, dark-skinned half-naked warriors astride fast racing ponies. They did not wear feathers as she expected, only a head band keeping back their shoulder long and lank black hair. They wore breechcloths which left their thighs bare, their moccasins came up almost to the knees. Most of them were armed with bows but there were firearms, revolvers and muzzle loading carbines mostly but with a couple of repeaters. No two looked alike or were armed alike. There was only one thing about them which was alike. All wore paint. They were coming for war. Hurling themselves in a fast and deadly rush straight at the train.
Seven – Right Lively for Tame Indians
‘There’s more than you reckoned, Lon,’ said Dusty quietly as he took up his Winchester carbine.
‘Why sure, likely called in a couple more bunches,’ replied the Kid, hefting the yellow boy.
The camp was ready and there was no alarm, only tense expectancy. The men were mostly veterans of the War and used to being faced with an enemy. Mark sprinted to the right of the train, Red heading for the left while Jim Lourde was to command the side facing the edge of the slope, with orders to stop the Apaches using it as a place to hide their snipers.
Red’s drive across the train ended when he slid under a wagon where a pale young man and woman knelt. The man was Red’s age but did not fight in the war so was not used to the idea of fighting. He was newly married before leaving the east and his wife knelt by his side loading a Mississippi rifle while he held a second and belted a Leech and Rigdon Navy revolver.
‘Don’t worry none,’ Red drawled, casually throwing a shell into the breech of his Spencer and thumb-cocking the big side hammer. ‘I’m here—which same’s right good cause to worry, come to think about it.’
The woman looked at Red, wondering what to make of that range country piece of logic. It took her mind off the attack which was what Red meant to do. He gave a piece of advice as the first volley thundered from the train.
‘Don’t empty them both at once,’ he said, indicating the rifle and revolver.
Mark came to a halt by the side of the gunsmith’s wagon and the man called Cauldon nodded to him. Beside the wagon were several open boxes containing rifles of various kinds and one closed box but Mark did not ask what was in it.
‘Looks like the Yankees at Bull Run,’ drawled Mark.
‘I hope they don’t fight as well,’ Cauldon answered.
‘They make the Yankees look like beginners,’ Mark warned, ‘Are all those guns loaded?’
‘Sure.’
The words were cut off by the crash of Dusty’s first volley. It sounded loud but so far there was no sign of an attack on this side of the train.
Dusty looked at the men lining the wagons and facing the first onrush of the Apaches. He saw that Maisie Simons’ wagon was just a little further along the line and her three helpers knelt at the ends with their weapons held, one had a Mississippi rifle, the second a shotgun and the third gripped a meat cleaver. There was no sign of Maisie at either end and this surprised Dusty. He did not think the woman would be the kind to shrink from anything which needed doing, even killing raiding Apaches and risking death herself.
Dusty found no time to worry over Maisie as the line of braves charged closer at every raking stride of their war-ponies. Dusty glanced quickly at the grim faced men who faced the rush. Like the Apaches they held a variety of weapons, mostly Hawkens or Kentucky muzzle loading rifles but with a few repeaters mixed among them while every man belted at least one revolver. ‘Hold your fire until I give the word!’ he yelled.
All too well Dusty knew the value of the first volley at such a time. The rifles, primed by hands unflurried by the excitement and tension of a fight, were less likely to misfire through from too small a powder charge, the ball being placed under instead of on top of the powder, or a second charge being placed on one which already lay in the barrel due to a misfire. These things all happened in the heat of a battle, even with trained veterans; The first volley, carefully loaded and aimed would do damage without fear of any such things happening.
‘Hold it!’ Dusty’s voice cracked out even over the fast growing thunder of hooves. ‘Hold it! Don’t fire yet!’
Raines thrust the point of his Haiman Bros, saber into the ground and looked to where his daughter stood by the side of the wagon ready to reload the repeaters as the men handed them to her. His eyes went to the Kid who gripped his rifle and selected his target but did not fire. The Kid knew his shot might start others throwing lead and ruin the first volley.
Nearer the Apaches thundered, every brave urging his pony to greater effort in his attempt to be the first to count coup on the hated white-eyes. The ground shook to the sound of the hooves but Dusty still held his fire. He wanted them so close that they would get the full power of the volley.
‘Easy now,’ he told the men. ‘Make sure of your aim. Line careful and make every shot count—Fire!’
The last word brought a crash of shots and a very creditable volley slashed into the Apache ranks. Several men and horses went down but two of the braves made their feet again and were scooped up behind their lodg
e brothers to be carried clear.
‘Reload!’ Dusty roared, bringing his carbine to his shoulder.
The carbine and the two rifles began to crash, backed by the other repeaters along Dusty’s section of the train. The Kid’s old yellow boy was like an extension of his arm, the way it operated. It moved, sighted and spewed flame, a brave or a horse went down at every shot for at that range the Kid was hardly likely to miss. Raines and Dusty were also shooting fast, although Dusty gave more attention to the rest of the line than to firing his carbine. The men with the cartridge rifles were also pouring in their shots and the faster reloaders brought their muzzle-loading rifles into play.
The Apache attack split, boiling along the two flanks where Mark and Red ordered volley firing. The crash of shots shattered the air on either side, then a volley from the rear told that Lourde’s men were given their concrete task in the fight. Methodically and without a thought as to the rights or wrongs of this action the Kid picked off any brave who was down and showed the slightest sign of rising again.
Then the attack was over and the braves shredding back to the main body who were now in sight and waiting some three hundred yards from the train. A sporadic burst of cheering rose from the travelers but Dusty stopped it. They’d held the first attack but it counted for little. The remaining Apaches would come in again all the more eager to avenge the killing of their friends and lodge brothers and to show the temporary breaking of their war medicine meant nothing to them.
‘They’re waiting for something, Dusty,’ drawled the Kid as he forced bullets through the loading slot of his rifle. ‘I’m not sure wh—yeah! That’s it. Look out there!’
Dusty look and knew what the Kid meant. From the dust which boiled up in the distance a fair sized bunch were coming to join the attack.
‘Make sure everything’s ready loaded!’ Dusty bellowed. ‘Red, Mark, Jim, there’s another lot coming in.’
Red’s head emerged from under the wagon like a woodpecker peeping through a knothole in a pine tree.
