The Andre Norton Megapack

by Andre Norton

  The door burst open for the second time as Simmy was propelled through it, his hands shoulder high, palm out, and empty. Weatherby came behind him, a gun belt slung over one shoulder, two extra revolvers thrust into his own belt.

  “They got Petey,” Simmy gabbled. “Got him wi’ a knife!” His forward rush brought him against the wall, and he made no move to turn around to face them. He could only plaster his body tight to that surface as if he longed to be able to ooze out into safety through one of its many cracks.

  “Shuck th’ hardware!” Kirby ordered.

  Hatch’s grin was gone. The fingers of his big hands were twitching, and the twist of his mouth was murderous.

  “Lissen—” the Texan’s tone was frosty—“I’ve a finger what cramps on m’ trigger when I git riled, an’ I’m gittin’ riled now. You loose off that theah fightin’ iron, an’ do it quick!”

  Hatch’s hand went to his gun. He jerked it from the holster and slung it across the floor.

  “Now th’ one you got holdin’ up your belly…an’ your knife!”

  The Colt that Hatch had taken from Drew and a bowie with a long blade joined the armament already on the boards. Drew made a fast harvest of all the weapons.

  “Well, we sure got us some bounty hunter’s bag,” Kirby observed as he and Weatherby finished using the captives’ own belts to pinion them.

  “There may be more comin’; they talked about some captain.” Drew brought Boyd back to the warmth of the fire.

  Weatherby nodded. “I’ll scout.” He disappeared out the door.

  Jas’ was rocking back and forth, holding on one knee the injured hand Kirby had roughly bandaged; his other arm was fastened behind him. There were tears of pain on his cheeks, but after his first outcry he had not uttered a sound. Hatch, on the other hand, had been so foul-mouthed that Kirby had torn off a length of the bed covering and gagged him.

  Simmy sat now with his back against the wall, watching their every move. Of the three, he seemed the likeliest to talk. Kirby appeared to share in Drew’s thoughts on that subject, for now he bore down on the small man.

  “You expectin’ some friends?” Compared to his tone of moments earlier, the Texan’s voice was now mildly friendly. “We’d like to know, seein’ as how we’re thinkin’ some hospitable thoughts ’bout entertainin’ them proper.”

  Simmy stared up at him, bewildered. Kirby shook his head, his expression one of a man dealing with a stubbornly stupid child.

  “Lissen, hombre, me—I’m from West Texas, an’ that theah’s Comanche country, leastwise it was Comanche country ’fore we Tejanos moved in. Now Comanches, they’re an unfriendly people, ’bout the unfriendliest Injuns, ’cept ’Paches, a man can meet up with. An’ they have them some neat little ways of makin’ a man talk, or rather yell, his lungs out. It ain’t too hard to learn them tricks, not for a bright boy like me, it ain’t. You able to understand that?”

  Kirby did not scowl, he did not even touch the little man. But as one drawling word was joined to the next, Simmy held his body tighter against the wall, as if to escape by pushing.

  “I ain’t done nothin’!” he cried.

  “That’s what I said, little man. You ain’t done nothin’. But you’re goin’ to do somethin’—talk!”

  Simmy’s pale tongue swept across working lips. “What…you want—wantta…know?” he stuttered.

  “You expectin’ to meet some friends heah?”

  “Th’ rest o’ the boys an’ th’ cap’n; they may be ketchin’ up.”

  “How many ‘boys’?”

  Simmy’s tongue tripped again. He swallowed. Drew thought he was trying to produce a crumb of defiance. Kirby reached out, selecting Hatch’s bowie knife from the cache of captured weapons. He weighed it across the palm of his hand as if trying its balance and then, with deceptive ease, flipped it. The point thudded into the wall scant inches away from Simmy’s right ear, and the little man’s head bobbed down so that his nose hit one of his hunched-up knees.

  “How many ‘boys’?” Kirby repeated.

  “Depends.…”

  “On what?”

  “On how good th’ raidin’ is. After a fight thar’s always some pickin’s.”

  Drew was suddenly sick. What Simmy hinted at was the vulture work among the dead and the wounded too enfeebled to protect themselves from being plundered. He saw Kirby’s lips set into a thin line.

  “Kinda throw a wide rope, don’t you, little man? How many ‘boys’?”

  “Maybe five…six.…”

  “An’ this heah cap’n?”

  “He tells us wheah thar’s good pickin’s.” For a moment the man produced a spark of spite. “He’s a Reb, like you—”

  “Have you used this place before?” Drew broke in. If this were either a regular or temporary rendezvous for this jackal pack, the quicker they were away, the better.

  “No, the cap’n said to meet here tonight.”

  “I don’t suppose he said when?” Kirby’s question was answered by a shake of Simmy’s unkempt head.

  Boyd suddenly moved in his cocoon of blankets, struggling to sit up, and Drew went to him.

  He was coughing again with a strangling fight for breath which was frightening to watch. Drew steadied him until the attack was over and he lay in the other’s arms, gasping. The liquid in the pot on the fire was cooked by now. Perhaps if Boyd had some of that in him.… But dared they stay here?

  Kirby squatted back on his heels as Drew settled Boyd on his blankets and went to unhook the pot. Then the Texan supported the younger boy as Drew ladled spoonfuls of the improvised broth into his mouth.

  “Th’ doc’ll come,” Kirby murmured. “Croff promised to guide him heah. But this gang business—”

  “I don’t see how we can move him now.…” Drew was feeding the broth between Boyd’s lips, trying to ease the cough, his wits too dulled to tackle any problem beyond that.

  “Which means we gotta keep company from movin’ in. If we could raise us a few of the boys now.…” Kirby was speculative.

  “If you went back to camp, gave the alarm. Traggart doesn’t want a gang like this runnin’ loose around here. They say they’re Union; maybe they do have some connection with the Yankees.”

  “With a Reb cap’n throwin’ in with ’em? Most of these polecats play both sides of the border when it’ll git them anythin’ they want. An’ they could try an’ pay their way with the Yankees by tellin’ ’bout our movements heah.”

  “Could you make it to camp, fast?”

  Kirby grunted. “Sure, easy as driftin’ downriver on one of them theah steamers. But leavin’ you heah with that mess of skunks is somethin’ else.”

  “Weatherby’s out there. Anything or anyone gettin’ by him would have to come in on wings.”

  “An’ wings don’t come natural to this breed of critter! All right, I don’t see how theah’s much else we can do. We can’t go pullin’ the kid ’round any more. I’ll give Weatherby the high sign an’ make it back as quick as I can. Let’s see if these heah ropes is staked out tight.”

  He made a careful inspection of their three captives’ bonds, and Drew laid the assorted armament to hand. But Kirby hesitated by the door.

  “You keep your eyes peeled, amigo. Weatherby—he can pull that in-and-out game through the loft like he did before. But one man can’t be all over the range at once.”

  “I know.” Drew studied the remnants of battered furniture about the room. He thought he could pull the bed frame across the outer door, and shove the table and bench in front of the door to the lean-to. And there was a section of wall right under the broken window which could not be seen by anyone outside. “I’ve some precautions in mind.”

  “I’m ridin’ then. See you.” Kirby was gone with a wave of hand.

  Boyd was quiet again. The broth must have soothed him. Drew shifted the other’s body to the floor on the spot of safety under the window. As he returned to gather up the arms he noted that Jas’ was watchin
g him.

  Some of the first shock of his wound had worn off so that the guerrilla was not only aware of his present difficulties but was eyeing Drew in a manner which suggested he had not accepted the change in their roles as final. Drew hesitated. He could tie back that wounded hand, too, but he was sure the other could not use it to any advantage, and Drew could not bring himself to cause the extra pain such a move would mean. Not that he had any illusions concerning the bushwhacker’s care for him, had their situation been reversed.

  Simmy, once Kirby had gone, moved against the wall, holding up his head with a sigh of relief. He, too, watched Drew move the furniture. And when the scout did not pay any attention to him he spoke. “Wotcha gonna do wi’ us, Reb?”

  Hatch’s eyes, over the gag, were glaring evil; Jas’ was watching the two Confederates with an intent measuring stare; but Simmy wilted a little when Drew looked at him directly.

  “You’re prisoners of war. As Union scouts.…”

  Simmy wriggled uncomfortably, and Drew continued the grilling.

  “You are Union scouts?”

  “Shore! Shore! We’s Union, ain’t we, Jas’?” he appealed eagerly to his fellow.

  Jas’ neither answered nor allowed his gaze to wander from Drew.

  “Then you’ll get the usual treatment of a prisoner.” Drew was short, trying to listen for any movement beyond the squalid room. Weatherby was out there, and Drew put a great deal of trust in the Cherokee’s ability. But what if the “captain” and the remaining members of this outlaw gang arrived before Kirby returned with help? Seeing that Boyd appeared to be asleep, Drew once again inspected his weapons, checking the loading of revolvers and rifle.

  Jas’s rifle was one of the new Spencers. The Yankees loaded those on Sunday and fired all week, or so the boys said. It was a fine piece, new and well cared for. He examined it carefully and then looked up to meet Jas’s flat stare, knowing that the guerrilla’s hate was the more bitter for seeing his prized weapon in the enemy’s hands.

  The Spencer, Simmy’s Enfield, old and not very well kept, five Colts beside his own, Hatch’s bowie knife and another, almost as deadly looking, which had been found on Jas’, equipped Drew with a regular arsenal. But it was not until he settled down that Drew knew he faced a far more deadly enemy—sleep. The fatigue he had been able to battle as long as he was on the move, hit him now with the force of a clubbed rifle. He knew he dared not even lean back against the wall or relax any of his vigilance, not so much over the prisoners and Boyd, as over himself.

  Somehow he held on, trying to move. The pile of wood by the hearth was diminishing steadily. He would soon have to let the fire die out. To venture out of the house in quest of more fuel was too risky. And always he was aware of Jas’s tight regard. Simmy had fallen asleep, his thin, weasel face hidden as his head lolled forward on his chest. Hatch’s eyes were also closed.

  Drew straightened with a start, conscious of having lost seconds—or moments—somewhere in a fog. He jerked aside, perhaps warned by his scout’s sixth sense more than any real knowledge of danger. There was a searing flash beside his head, the bite of fire on his cheek. If he had not moved, he would have received that blazing brand straight between the eyes. Now he rolled, snapping out a shot.

  A man shouted hoarsely and Drew strove to avoid a kick, struggling to win to his feet, unable to tell just what was happening.

  CHAPTER 13

  Disaster

  Simmy’s animallike howling filled the room. Jas’, his hand bleeding afresh, sopping through the bandage his captors had twisted about the wound, sprawled forward, clawing with those reddened fingers for the Spencer. While Hatch, eyes and upper portions of his hair-matted cheeks bulging over the gag, kicked out, striving to come at Drew with the frenzy of a man making a last desperate play.

  The brand Jas’ had hurled was smoldering on Boyd’s blankets. Drew sent it flying with the toe of his boot and made a quick movement to stamp out a small spurt of flame. Then he kicked it again, spinning the Spencer back against the wall.

  Simmy’s cry died to a whimper. A wide stain spread over his nondescript coat just above the belt, and Drew knew that his first shot had found that target. But he was in charge of the situation once again. Both Hatch and Jas’ had subsided, the one eyeing the threat of Drew’s weapon, the other again nursing his hand, his face drawn into a grin of agony.

  The smell of burning cloth was a sour stench. Drew moved to beat out a new blaze in the bedcovers. He coughed in acrid smoke and felt the smart of the burn along his neck and jaw where the brand had hit him. Simmy rolled on the floor, bent double.

  “Drew!” Boyd was struggling free of his blankets, up on one elbow, staring about him as one who had wakened into a nightmare rather than having come out of such a dream.

  “It’s all right.…”

  But was it? Hatch had subsided. Jas’ was quiet; there was nothing to fear from Simmy. Only that same sense which was part of any scout’s equipment nagged at Drew, warning him that the crisis was not over.

  He went down on one knee beside Simmy, endeavoring to roll him over to examine his wound. The guerrilla’s mouth was slackly open, his small, predator’s eyes were oddly bewildered, as if he could not comprehend what had happened to him or why. As Drew fumbled with his clothing to lay bare the wound, Simmy twisted, his legs pulling up a little. Then his head rolled, and Drew sat back on his heels. There was no longer any need for aid.

  Boyd still rested on his elbow, listening. He could hear Hatch’s thick breathing and Jas’s, a crack of charred wood breaking on the hearth, a slashing against the broken window…the storm had begun again. Only those were not the sounds they were listening for.

  Drew visited in turn each of the flimsy barricades he had erected after Kirby left. He had no way of telling time. How long had it been since the Texan left? It could not be too far from morning now, yet the sky outside the windows was still as black as night.

  “Drew!” Boyd pulled his other hand free, pointing to the ceiling over their heads.

  The loft! And the route Weatherby had made use of when he had gone up that ladder, dropped out of a window above, and returned with his prisoner through the front door. But if the Cherokee had come back to the cabin, surely the disturbance in the room below would have brought him down. Unless he was otherwise occupied.… How? And by whom?

  Drew went to the foot of the ladder, not looking up to show his suspicion, but only to listen. He was certain he heard a scraping sound. Was it someone making his way through a small window? No one who had been weeks in Weatherby’s company could believe that the Indian would betray his movements in that manner.

  Drew left the ladder, collected the Spencer, and joined Boyd. The rest of the weapons lay at hand, and Drew sorted them out swiftly, piling them between Boyd and his own post. From here, as he had earlier planned, they had both doors, two windows, and the ladder to the loft under surveillance. The other window was over the level of their heads. As long as they kept below its sill, anyone shooting through it could not touch them.

  Boyd hitched his shoulders higher against the wall. He was still flushed, his eyes too bright, but he was certainly more himself than he had been any time since they had brought him here. Now he reached for one of the Colts, resting it on his body at chest level.

  “Who are they?” he whispered, glancing at the prisoners.

  “Guerrillas,” Drew replied.

  “More company comin’?”

  “Might be. Anse went for the boys.”

  But Boyd’s chin lifted an inch or two, a slight gesture to indicate the ceiling again. He brought his other hand up, and using both, cocked the Colt, that click carrying with almost a shot’s sharp twang through the room.

  Jas’ was again staring at Drew, his lips a silent snarl. But the scout believed that as long as he was alert, weapons in hand, he had nothing more to fear from his prisoners. They had made their reckless gamble and had lost.

  The opening at the top of the ladd
er was a square of dark, hardly touched by the flickering light of the dying fire.

  “You theah.…” The barking hail came from without, strident, startling. “We have you surrounded.”

  It was the voice of an educated man with the regional softening of vowels. Simmy’s cap’n? What then had happened to Weatherby? Boyd braced the barrel of his Colt on a bent knee, its sights centered on the front door. But Drew still watched the loft opening.

  “Last chance…come out with your hands up!” The voice was very close now. And the unknown apparently knew at least part of the situation in the cabin. Which meant either very clever scouting, or that they had taken Weatherby. But Drew, knowing the habits of the guerrillas, dared not follow that last thought far. He tried to locate the man outside; he was in front all right, but surely not directly in line with the door.

  “Cap’n!” Jas’ called, his gaze daring Drew to shoot. “There’s only two of ’em, and one’s sick.”

  There was a flicker of movement in the trap opening. Drew fired, to be answered by a yelp of pain and surprise. Perhaps he had not entirely removed one of the attackers from the effective list, but the fellow would be more cautious from now on.

  There was only a short second between his shot and an answering fusillade from outside. The panes in the other windows shattered and Hatch, gurgling incoherently behind his gag, kicked to roll himself behind the flimsy protection of the bedstead.

  “You almost got one of your own men then!” Drew called. Feverishly he tried to think of a way to play for time. Weatherby might be dead, but Kirby could have reached the headquarters camp and already be well on his way back with reinforcements.

  Hatch’s gurgling was louder. And now Jas’ had transferred his attention to the broken windows and what might be beyond them. There was a creaking above. Drew tried to deduce from those sounds whether one man or two moved overhead. The fire was dying fast. Should he try to urge it into new life with the last of the wood, or would the dark be more to his benefit?