Red Hand was unlucky. No more devastating indictment could be leveled against a war chief than to be unlucky. To have bad luck was to be in disfavor with the gods. That was all it took ... it was more than enough.
The coalition of mighty warriors had agreed by mutual consent to enlist under Red Hand’s sway when he looked like a winner. That was done ... and so was his leadership. The Great Raid was over.
The Great Flight began. Braves pointed their horses’ heads at open spaces and raced toward them, eager to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the avenging guns of Hangtown.
TWENTY-FOUR
Red Hand’s luck had not totally deserted him. He’d managed to stay in the saddle through to the last blast.
This was no battle. It was a massacre. And not the one he’d planned. Those of his warriors who’d survived the explosions were being cut down by gunfire. No fool, Red Hand knew that Death ruled in Hangtown, death for his war party and his dreams of conquest.
The Great Raid was dead. What remained of his war party had become a mob of fugitives. And he, Red Hand, was one of them.
His silver horse was near out of its head. Its bulging eyes rolled, its mouth foamed. Red Hand could not restrain it. All he could do was hang on tight and fight to keep from being thrown as the animal galloped blindly into Hangtown. He felt he was riding into the whirlwind.
Yet his gods were still with him. Miraculously the horse somehow avoided falling into bombed-out craters, where it would have risked throwing its rider and breaking a leg.
The silver horse broke through the gap between the jail and the courthouse, plunging west. The Four Corners was a blazing buzz saw of violence as vengeful defenders shot bomb-dazed braves.
Red Hand’s senses were numb. He was seeing double. He shook his head to clear it and his eyes focused as a gap in the drifting smoke revealed the length of Trail Street stretching ahead. Other braves streaked west along it, fleeing town.
The silver horse ran that way. Red Hand leaned forward, letting the animal have its head. The sooner he was quits with Hangtown, the better!
A long, hard ride lay before him if he hoped to reach Comancheria. The defeated must slink home with their tails tucked between their legs.
But a man must live to fight another day. Other chances would present themselves, opportunities for advancement and redemption. New great deeds would wipe away stinging defeat, winning fresh acclaim.
First one must live. Then all else would follow, sure as the turning of the earth.
So Red Hand told himself, taking heart.
The front doors of the church crashed open and Johnny Cross came riding out.
Like the others manning the church, he’d kept his horse inside to avoid betraying their presence to Comanches. Johnny had done all he could to help wipe out Ten Scalps’ attack force on the killing field. Those whom the dynamite had spared had fallen to the deadly accuracy of the riflemen in the church. Straggling survivors fled toward the far horizons, away from Hangtown.
That was not enough scrap for Johnny. He was just getting warmed up. Killing at a distance was all very well and good, but he preferred to work up close and personal, where he could look in the faces of those he slew. There was still plenty of mopping up to be done in town, where the Comanches’ main force was being routed.
Johnny Cross was loaded for bear and his fighting blood was hot.
If there was one thing he hated above all else, it was being crowded. Since coming to town with Luke on Saturday—was it only yesterday?—he’d been crowded by gunmen, lawmen, and Indians. He’d had a bellyful of Red Hand and his war party and of being pinned in the Golden Spur, unable to come and go as he pleased.
The Spur was a gilded cage, spiced by the delights of lissome, lustful Francine, free-flowing whiskey, and the fellowship of a few boon companions. Despite that, cage it still was, and Johnny Cross was born to run wild and free.
He’d had a bellyful of Staffords and their Ramrod bunch, too, but they’d won a temporary stay of execution due to the Comanche-based emergency, when all Hangtown had to put aside private quarrels to unite against a common foe. The period of grace would last only so long as the current crisis.
Johnny trusted none of the Ramrod bunch, save maybe Dan Oxblood, and the redheaded gunman was no real Stafford hand. At that, he wouldn’t be turning his back on Red, either.
All that aside, his mission was to clean up Comanches.
The bombardment in the killing field had been hellacious, each earth-shattering blast making his heart beat faster. He’d envied Sam for the magnitude of the death-dealing abilities rendered him by a scoped rifle and a field full of dynamite. It almost, but not quite, took some of the sting off him being a Yankee.
Oh well, a person can’t help where he comes from, Johnny supposed. Not everybody is lucky enough to be born a Texan. Hard luck for them!
Sam Heller could no more help being a Yankee than the Comanches could help being what they were. They were born marauders and it suited them just fine. That was what they knew and they wanted no other way of life.
Which didn’t mean Johnny wasn’t going to kill every last warrior he caught on the business end of his guns. Of which he had many—two on his hips, two under his arms, and two stuck in the top of his pants.
He spurred his horse so it jumped from the wide platform of the top step to the ground without touching any steps in between. Wind brought the smell of fire smoke and cordite to him. He rode downhill, east on Trail Street, and right into the heart of the action. Smoke, screams, shots, pounding hoofbeats, and the smell of gunpowder. It was totally wild!
Twin .44s were in his hands and the reins gripped between his teeth as a passel of Comanches came racing toward him. Johnny opened up, guns blazing, leaving them sprawled in the dirt and their riderless horses coursing by.
Holstering the gun in his left hand, he gripped the reins one-handed, slowing the horse. He had fallen into the rhythm of battle without thinking; a habit of mind that came as naturally to him as breathing. It helped make him a natural-born pistol fighter.
Farther east along the street Comanches were giving a couple fellows a hard time. Johnny urged the horse forward.
Three mounted braves had two citizens trapped on the boardwalk fronting the Alamo Bar. The townsmen had their backs to the wall
Johnny rode up to the braves and cut loose, throwing lead. No sportsmanship, no fair play, that wasn’t what it was all about.
Leaving three riderless ponies and two grateful citizens in his wake, he moved on in search of the next encounter. A cloud of smoke blew up, stinging his eyes, choking him.
The smoke thinned, revealing a handful of mounted braves coming at him. He fired, the pistol in his right hand emptying after two shots. But each shot hit its man.
Letting his empty gun fall, Johnny reached across his chest under his arms, right hand reaching left, left hand reaching right, each hand snaking a .44 out of the shoulder holsters.
No longer a leader but a follower, Red Hand regained control of his horse and raced to join the group of braves riding fast out of town.
Through the murk of smoke, the lone figure of a mounted man emerged—a Texan. Opening fire, the rider shot the two lead braves out of their saddles before his gun clicked on empty.
The others rushed him. Quick as thought, guns filled the Texan’s hands and he came at them shooting.
A Comanche warrior raised a rifle for a kill shot. Before he could bring it into play, slugs hammered into his chest, nailing him.
The clash was so quick, so sudden, the contending parties so close to each other, any advantage rifle-bearing braves might have had was nullified as they shot it out with Johnny Cross at point-blank range.
Fire lanced from Johnny’s gun muzzles, pistols milling out a wall of lead. Bullets whipped past, one creasing his left arm. Deadly .44s roaring, he swept braves from the scene, gunning them down with lightning speed
Red Hand gaped in astonishment as those b
efore him fell torn and mauled under hammering six-guns.
A Comanche crowded within arm’s reach of Johnny, his face filling Johnny’s field of vision. A gun blast erased that face, wiping its features into an unholy mess that dropped out of sight with its bearer.
A war club wielded by another swiped viciously at Johnny’s head—a near miss, the breeze of its passing fanning his face.
Johnny didn’t miss. Space opened up around him as the foe fell away, and then suddenly he was face to face with Red Hand. Not that he knew him from Adam. All he knew was that he was being rushed by a particularly fierce-faced Comanche with a spear.
Red Hand still had his lance, the unlit Fire Lance. Somehow he’d managed to hold on to it during the rout. His right hand gripped the lance at mid-shaft, pointing it at a tilted angle at Johnny.
One of Johnny’s guns was empty; he leveled the other on Red Hand, squeezing the trigger.
Click. That gun was empty, too.
Red Hand’s grimace widened into a grin of triumph. The gods were indeed with him. His luck had not yet run out!
Red Hand thrust at Johnny, the spear blade seeking the other’s heart.
An empty pistol was still a weapon. Johnny threw it at Red Hand’s face. Red Hand ducked his head to avoid it.
Johnny turned his horse, kicking its flanks and slamming it into Red Hand’s mount. The animals crashed together with jolting impact.
Getting under and around the lunging lance, Johnny came up on Red Hand’s left side. He kicked free of the stirrups and climbed out of the saddle. Hands reaching, clawing for Red Hand, he jumped him.
The thud of flesh striking flesh sounded as Johnny tangled with Red Hand. The two pitched over the right-hand side of the Comanche’s horse, spilling into the dirt, kicking up dust.
Red Hand absorbed most of the impact of the fall. He let go of the lance, no longer an asset, but a liability.
Horse hooves hammered the ground near their heads. They grappled, throwing punches. Grunting and panting, they worked fists, elbows, and knees.
Red Hand was strong and slippery. Johnny couldn’t get a good grip on him, but he got the Comanche under him.
Red Hand drew his knife. Johnny grabbed Red Hand’s forearm, tough as a tree limb and harder to hold than a rattlesnake. The blade quivered, seeking Johnny’s throat, chest, and heart.
A reversal put Red Hand on top, Johnny on the bottom, gripping the wrist of the other’s knife hand. He brought his knees up to his chest and pushed out, flipping Red Hand up and over. His hold on the wrist of the Comanche’s knife hand was broken.
Red Hand went with the throw, tucking his head down, taking the impact on his shoulder. Going into a roll, he got his feet under him and jumped up, whirling to face his opponent. Shifting his grip on the knife for an underhand thrust, he lunged at Johnny.
Scrambling to meet the Indian’s rush, Johnny reached for a gun stuck in his waistband, drawing and firing several times. The reports came so quick they sounded like one continuous blast.
He shot Red Hand point-blank in the middle, firing from so close the other’s flesh was tattooed by gunpowder burns.
Doubled up, the Comanche kept on coming even as he was folding. Johnny sidestepped to get out of his way, and Red Hand fell facedown into the dirt.
Johnny crouched low, gun in hand, looking around for the next foe. The slaughter had peaked and was moving into a lull. Most of the surviving Comanches had already fled town.
Three stragglers raced up. Johnny shot the lead rider off his horse. He swung his pistol toward the next man, but before he could pull the trigger a burst of gunfire sounded from behind him, blowing the rest of the stragglers out of their saddles. Their horses rushed past.
Johnny glanced over his shoulder to see where the shooting came from. Through drifting gun smoke he saw Sam Heller on horseback, the mule’s-leg in his hand. The Winchester Model 1866 was once more cut down for close action.
“Trust a Yankee to show up when the dirty work’s over,” Johnny croaked.
“Trust a Texan to bag the bragging rights,” barked Sam.
Johnny didn’t catch his drift. “Say again?”
“Don’t you know who you were tussling with?” Sam asked.
“Nope, ’cepting he was an ornery cuss even for a Comanche, and that’s saying some.”
“Take a better look.”
Johnny went to the body. It lay facedown. Working a boot toe under the corpse’s shoulder, he flipped it over on its back. The face meant nothing to him, but he saw that the dead man’s arms were painted from fingertips to elbows with scarlet signs and symbols.
“Red Hand.”
“The big chief.” Sam nodded.
“Huh. Ain’t that a caution?”
“Yup.”
“So that’s the one who kicked up all this fuss,” Johnny said. “Well, he’s stone dead now.”
“And he never looked better in his life.”
TWENTY-FIVE
You’ve got to hand it to Hangtown. No sooner does it get shut of one round of killings, than it gets set for another,” Sam muttered.
“I’m getting set,” Johnny retorted. “My name’s penciled in on this dance card.”
They stood near the Alamo Bar, off to one side, facing Four Corners, where the next big gunfight was shaping up.
Johnny was checking his hardware. One fully loaded gun was stuck in the top of his pants over his left hip. He transferred it to the empty holster on his right hip.
Sam stood puffing away on a corncob pipe, liking the way the taste of the rough-cut tobacco caught in his throat. He held the pipe with the bowl cradled in his left hand. His right hand hung down easily by his side, brushing against the butt of the holstered mule’s-leg.
Their horses were tied to a hitching post. Red Hand was stretched facedown across the back of Johnny’s horse.
“One loaded gun,” Johnny muttered. “Feels like I’m comin’ to the party half dressed!”
Sam drew the Navy Colt worn holstered under his left arm and proffered it to Johnny. “Try mine.”
Johnny took it. “Thanks.” Instinctively he checked the .36 revolver, making sure it was loaded.
Sam smiled, not offended by Johnny’s caution. Only a damned fool took a gun that wasn’t his without inspecting it first.
“Red Hand’s carcass should be worth something. Keep an eye on it for me, will you?” Johnny asked.
“Sure.”
“See ya.” Johnny started across the street.
“’Luck,” Sam said, giving the other a two-fingered salute.
The Comanche raiders had fled. The victorious townfolk were not minded to take up pursuit. Most were simply glad to be alive. Others had yet to slake their thirst for blood. Chief among those was Vince Stafford.
Now that the battle of Red Hand was done, Vince was moving fast to strike hard against the man he regarded as his main antagonist. Damon Bolt.
The sun was up. It was already hot. A light breeze from the west blew much of the smoke and dust out of town. The air was still hazy, and stank of cordite, blood, and death.
Four Corners bore all the marks of the war zone it was. A number of small fires burned where flaming debris had fallen on rooftops, porches, or boardwalks, sending up long, thin fingers of gray-black smoke. The street grid was pocked with the craters of exploded dynamite caches and strewn with the dead bodies of horses and men.
Wooden walls were riddled with bullet holes. An intact pane of window glass was not to be found for blocks. Glass shards littered the streets, reflecting sunlight like a diamond mosaic.
From all sides came a mixed chorus of the shrieks and groans of the wounded and the dying. A disemboweled horse lay on its side shrieking, legs churning empty air.
Vigilant and bloody-minded citizens roamed among fallen Comanches, delivering the coup de grâce to those still alive or any who looked doubtful.
A shot sounded and the wounded horse stopped shrieking. Frown lines in Sam Heller’s face smoothed out
. The horse’s outcries had been getting on his nerves. He was glad someone had put it out of its misery.
Men were sure pure hell on horses. They were hell on each other, too, but at least they had a choice. The horses didn’t. Maybe the men didn’t have a choice, either, but that was the way of it, Sam told himself.
The Ramrod bunch, what was left of them, was mustering in front of the feed store to take their fight to the Golden Spur. They gathered around Vince Stafford as if by some law of gravitation, all the lesser satellites falling under his heavy sway.
Of the top guns, Dan Oxblood, Kev Huddy, and Clay Stafford were intact and unwounded. Ted Claiborne had been hit several times. None of the wounds was mortal, but he was out of action. Among the next rank, Duncan, Kaw, and Lord were unhurt or had received minor flesh wounds. Five other lesser, mid-range Ramrod gun hands were in shape for the showdown. Vince Stafford was unharmed, as was Quent.
Vince took stock of the situation and found it good. Most of the citizenry was still staying off the streets. Sheriff Barton and his men were busy at the Big Corral, shoring it up to prevent any horses from escaping.
Vince gripped a rifle, holding it horizontally across the tops of bowed, spindly thighs. An oversized horse pistol was strapped to his hip.
“I come out of that scrap all right, by God! I got my two strong sons to side me and more’n half my men alive,” he crowed. His face scrunched up, squinting across the street at the Golden Spur.
Clay and Quent Stafford fell in alongside Vince, flanking him, Clay on his left and Quent on his right.
Clay’s face was tiger striped with blood streaks from where a glass shard had opened a cut on his forehead. A blue bandanna was knotted around his forehead. It was stained a purple-wine color, but the makeshift bandage had stemmed the flow of blood from the wound. His hair was disarranged. It stood out in yellow-white spikes, some stained red. His face was taut, haggard, his eyes watchful. A smoking six-gun was held at his side.
A Good Day to Die Page 29
