The wash was just deep enough to conceal the ponies. The war party had followed its twists and turns for more than a mile to get in position for the impending ambush. The wagon full of women and the two white men were almost there.
Swift Pony glanced over his shoulder. The young scout, Hornet, looked up with an eager expression. He had never known real battle before. He had been too young to fight when the soldiers came to Palo Duro Canyon and slaughtered the horse herd and broke the back of the Comanche people. Since then, he had known only the play fighting on the reservation, the struggles of the young men who hoped to one day use the skills to kill the enemy.
Hornet would finally get his chance to do that.
Swift Pony checked one more time to see how close the quarry had come then he slid back down the bank to join the others. “Get ready,” he told them.
A few yards away the bank had washed out during one of the infrequent flash floods that roared through the arroyo. The men would be able to ride their ponies out of the wash there, three or four at a time.
“We are ready,” Hornet said. “Soon the white men will be dead and the white women will be ours.”
One of the other warriors, an older man known as Broken Branch, made a noise of disgust. “White women. Soft and ugly. They will bear weak sons.”
“And we will make those sons strong,” Swift Pony said. “Strong enough to come back someday and drive the intruders from all the land where the Comanche should roam free.”
“You believe this?” Broken Branch said.
In truth, Swift Pony did not believe. But he also did not believe that his people should give up all hope and live in the way the white men commanded. So he nodded and held out his hand.
Hornet placed a rifle in it, an old Henry they had taken from one of the ranches they had raided.
“One of the white men has ridden back to check behind the wagon,” Swift Pony said. “The other still rides in front. I will kill him, and that will be your signal to attack. Some of you surround the wagon while the rest kill the other white man. Be careful. The women may have guns. Do not let them shoot you.”
“No white woman will ever shoot me!” Broken Branch declared.
Swift Pony hoped his old friend was right. But like all the others, Broken Branch would have to take his chances.
As the others got ready to mount and begin the attack, Swift Pony took the rifle and climbed back to the top of the bank. He found himself a good, stable spot where he could brace his feet and steady himself as he took aim. He worked the Henry’s lever to throw a cartridge into the firing chamber and slid the barrel over the edge. He laid his cheek against the smooth wooden stock and settled his sights on the man riding in front of the wagon.
A young man, Swift Pony saw now that the rider was closer. Not much more than a boy in a buckskin shirt, with a brown hat cocked back casually on his head.
He would never get any older, Swift Pony thought as his finger tightened on the Henry’s trigger.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Ace was riding easy, his eyes constantly on the move as his gaze roved over the landscape ahead of him, when for the barest instant the sun glinted off something at the edge of that meandering wash. His instincts cried out for instant action, and finely honed nerves and muscles responded.
He jerked the chestnut hard to the right and leaned far to that side. The crack of a shot and the whine of a bullet passing close beside him sounded together less than a heartbeat later.
Off balance, his horse fought hard to keep from falling. Hauling hard on the reins to keep the chestnut’s head up, Ace jabbed his heels into the animal’s flanks. The horse leaped ahead, and that convulsive movement helped it regain its balance.
Ace grabbed his Winchester and yanked it from its sheath. He swung the horse back toward the dry wash as several riders burst out of it and were galloping toward him, firing rifles as they came.
By the time he recognized them as Indians and realized they had to be the band of renegades Lieutenant Wingate’s patrol was looking for, Ace had lifted the rifle to his shoulder in one smooth motion, drawn a bead, and pressed the trigger.
The Winchester cracked, and one of the attackers flew backwards off his horse with his arms flung out to the sides. He landed with a limp bounce like a rag doll carelessly tossed aside.
More riders were emerging from the wash as Ace fired three more rounds, jacking the Winchester’s lever between shots as fast as he could.
Then he turned and raced back toward the wagon, glad to see that Agnes had brought it to a stop and scrambled over the seat into the back with the other ladies. The wagon’s thick sideboards would stop most bullets. He just hoped they would stay low.
But he should have known better. Two of the women popped up—probably Lorena and Agnes—and rifle shots rang out from the wagon.
Now Ace hoped their aim was good enough that they wouldn’t hit him as he galloped toward them.
A glance toward the rear told him that Chance had been drawn by the gunfire and was closing in from that direction. Ace looked over his shoulder. More than a dozen Comanche warriors were in pursuit, which matched what Wingate had said about the size of the war party.
If he and Chance could both reach the wagon and fort up there, they might have a chance. Sure, they were outnumbered, but they were good shots and had plenty of ammunition. Also, it was open ground around the wagon, so the renegades wouldn’t have any cover and couldn’t sneak up on them.
The Indians could, however, kill the horses in the team and strand the Jensen brothers and the women, then keep them pinned down until nightfall came.
Once darkness cloaked the landscape, defending the wagon would be almost impossible.
One battle at a time, Ace told himself. Maybe they could inflict enough damage on the renegades to make them give up the attack. They might even be able to kill that war chief, Swift Pony, and take the heart out of the others . . .
That was what Ace was thinking when his horse went down with no warning. As it collapsed underneath him, he kicked his feet free of the stirrups. The next instant, he was sailing through the air as momentum carried him over the chestnut’s head. He hit the ground so hard consciousness fled from him.
Chance’s heart seemed to leap into his throat as he saw Ace’s horse go down. Ace was thrown clear and after he landed and rolled over a couple times, he didn’t move again. He was either knocked out . . .
Or the fall had broken his neck and killed him.
Chance didn’t let himself believe that. He urged his horse to a faster pace, even though the gelding was already lunging forward with long, ground-eating strides.
From the corner of his eye as he flashed past the wagon, Chance saw Agnes and Lorena kneeling inside the vehicle and firing rifles toward the Indians. The other three women were all staying low, out of the line of fire. Chance was glad to see that. He hoped they could hold off the renegades while he grabbed Ace and then hurried back to the wagon.
It was a race, though, with life and death as the stakes. Some of the attackers charged directly toward Ace. Dirt flew in the air around his motionless form as the Indians fired at him. They wouldn’t know if he was still alive or not, but they were willing to spend some bullets to make sure.
Shooting from the back of a galloping pony was difficult, but if they reached Ace first, they would be able to fill him with lead as they charged past. Even though it went against the grain for Chance to rein his horse to a sliding stop, he knew that was the only way to save his brother.
The cream-colored gelding trembled just a little but otherwise stood stock-still as Chance raised his rifle, aimed quickly, and fired. The whip-crack blast was followed an instant later by one of the renegades jerking around on the back of his pony and then sliding off. The man riding right behind him had to leap his horse over the fallen man to avoid trampling him.
Chance fired again, and that second man did a back-flip as the slug blew a good-sized chunk of his head away. The oth
er two renegades who had been heading for Ace veered off.
Chance kicked his horse into a run again, daring to hope that he could save his brother.
As he pounded up to Ace a couple heart-stopping moments later, he realized that the rest of the war party had skirted around him and was closing in on the wagon. Chance twisted his head around to look and saw that puffs of powder smoke still came from the vehicle.
“Hold out,” he muttered as he threw himself from the saddle before the horse had even stopped moving. His hat flew off his head as his feet hit the ground. “Hold out for just a minute.”
Ace lay facedown. Chance dropped to his knees beside him and grasped his shoulders. He rolled Ace onto his back. Ace’s head was slack on his neck, but it wasn’t bent at an unusual angle.
And he was breathing, Chance realized as he saw the steady rise and fall of his brother’s chest. Ace had been knocked cold by the fall, but he was alive.
Chance pulled him up into a sitting position, got an arm around his shoulders, and slapped him lightly across the face. “Ace! Ace, wake up, damn it!”
Ace groaned and moved his head a little, but his eyes didn’t open. Chance looked at the wagon. The Indians were circling it, but oddly enough, they didn’t seem to be shooting.
Because they didn’t want to kill the women, he realized.
They wanted to capture them.
That sudden knowledge was like a punch in the gut from a giant, ice-covered fist. Chance let Ace slump back to the ground and leaped for his saddle. Now that he knew Ace was alive, he could turn his attention back to defending the women.
The almost hopeless, overwhelmingly outnumbered task of protecting the women . . .
The shooting had stopped. Chance saw the wagon swaying back and forth and knew some of the renegades were in the wagon with the ladies. He was going to be too late.
* * *
Agnes struck out with the butt of the rifle she clutched, trying to ram it into the face of the warrior who had hold of Jamie, who shrieked and writhed but couldn’t break free. The Comanche saw the blow coming and twisted out of its way. He lifted his foot in a brutal kick that sank into Agnes’s belly and doubled her over.
At the other end of the wagon, Isabel slashed back and forth with her dagger at another of the renegades. He was one of four men who had leaped from their ponies into the vehicle. Face twisted in anger, he darted back, out of reach of the blade. In an instant, while Isabel was off balance, he leaped forward, knocked her arm up with his left arm, and cuffed her heavily across the face with his right hand.
Isabel’s knees buckled and the dagger slipped from her fingers.
Lorena had dropped the rifle she had been using and pulled out her pistol, knowing it was better for close work. As one of the renegades leaped at her, she thrust the barrel against his belly and pulled the trigger. His body muffled the little pop of the gun going off so that it was almost inaudible.
His eyes widened in pain and shock, but he barreled into her anyway, catching hold of her by the neck and ramming her against one of the curved wooden struts that gave the wagon’s canvas cover its shape. Even though he was gut shot, he kept choking her until she lost consciousness.
Molly was putting up a fight, too. She had no weapon, but she hammered her fists against the bare chest of the man who had grabbed hold of her. Unfortunately, the blows did no good. He was much too strong for her, and she cried out in horror as he swung her out of the wagon and into sinewy hands that were waiting for her.
After the kick to the belly, Agnes struggled to catch her breath and get back to her feet. She made it in time to see Jamie, Isabel, and Lorena passed out of the wagon to warriors on horseback. Molly was already held tightly on one of the ponies. Isabel and Lorena appeared to be unconscious—or worse. Jamie was still fighting, but to no avail.
Some of the men who had been in the wagon were abandoning it, leaping agilely from the vehicle to the backs of their ponies.
Agnes screamed, “No!” as the riders wheeled to gallop away with their captives. She made a grab for the rifle she had dropped a minute earlier.
One of the renegades backhanded her before she could pick up the gun. She slumped against the sideboards, too stunned to move. The man reached for a knife sheathed at his waist, and in that moment, Agnes knew she was about to die.
Another Indian grabbed that one by the arm and pulled him away. Both of them jumped from the wagon onto horseback. Shots roared somewhere nearby. The renegades returned the fire as their ponies lunged after the others.
Agnes found the strength to reach up, grab the top sideboard, and pull herself to her knees. As she looked out, something dripped into her eyes and blurred her vision. She lifted a hand, touched her face, saw the fingers come away smeared with blood.
“Agnes!”
A familiar voice bellowed her name. She looked over and saw Chance Jensen flinging himself out of the saddle with the Smith & Wesson held in his right hand. Smoke curled from the muzzle, telling her that he had fired the shots she just heard.
The bullets hadn’t done any good. All the renegades who had swarmed around the wagon were still mounted and riding hell-bent toward the south.
Chance leaped into the wagon, caught hold of her shoulders, and pulled her around. A lot of times on the journey she would have loved for him to grab her like that—but that moment was not one of them.
“You’re bleeding!” Chance said. “How bad are you hurt?”
Agnes found her voice. “I . . . I don’t know. I don’t think I was shot. One of them hit me . . . with his hand . . .”
“Looks like it just opened up a cut, and head wounds always bleed bad.” Chance pulled a bandana from his pocket, wadded the cloth up, and pressed it to the wound. “Here, hold this. We need to stop that bleeding.”
“Ace . . .” Agnes had seen him fall, and her heart had twisted inside her at the sight. They had become friends. “Is he—”
“He’s alive.” Chance looked toward the wash. “They didn’t circle back to finish him off, thank God. They got what they were after and just wanted to get away with their prizes.”
“The others,” Agnes said hollowly. “The Indians took all of them.”
“Yeah,” Chance said, “and as soon as Ace comes to his senses, we’re gonna go get them back.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The young warrior Hornet had his hands full with the woman whose hair was so pale it was almost like snow. Old women had hair that color, but this one was far from old. She was young and firm and rounded, especially the part that was pressed against his groin as he held her in front of him on the running pony. She twisted futilely, trying to get away.
Once they reached Mexico, one of the older warriors would probably claim the fair-haired woman, and Swift Pony would agree. Hornet, being young and having very little status in the band, would have to accept that decision, but for now, he was going to enjoy the closeness he felt with her. For the moment, she was his.
The tough, wiry Indian mounts could run all day, but after a while Swift Pony ordered his men to slow down. They rode for several more miles at that easier pace, then the war chief called a halt in another arroyo, much like the one where they had waited to ambush the wagon.
The two women who had been stunned during the struggle had regained their senses. At first they had fought—all of them had fought—but as the miles passed, their efforts to break free had weakened. Both—the one with flaming red hair and the one with dark hair who looked like a Mexican—had given up, seemingly, and rode with their heads down and their shoulders slumped.
Despite that attitude, Hornet would not have trusted them. White women could never be trusted.
Swift Pony himself did not ride with any of the captives. That would have been beneath a war chief. But Hornet had seen him looking with considerable interest at the older woman with darker blond hair. She still struggled and spat white man’s curses.
A woman with such a fiery spirit would be a good mat
ch for Swift Pony. Her sons might not be as weak as Broken Branch believed they would be.
Several of the men slid down from their mounts and took hold of the women, dragging them from horseback and throwing them to the sandy ground. Hornet hated to let go of his fair-haired captive, but he had no choice. He threw a leg over the pony’s back and dropped to the ground.
The attack on the wagon had not gone exactly as Swift Pony had anticipated. Those two young men had been faster, more accurate, and deadlier shots than most white settlers were. Three members of the war party were dead, and another was wounded.
Worse still, at least one of the white men was still alive and probably galloping to Fort Concho to bring word of the attack. The cavalry would set out in pursuit of the renegades and their captives. Swift Pony had planned to be much farther away before anyone realized the women had been taken.
Angry, the war chief stalked back and forth with his face set in grim lines while the ponies and men rested.
“You should have let me kill the ugly woman,” Broken Branch said as Swift Pony stalked past him. It wasn’t a good time to be scolding Swift Pony, Hornet thought, but Broken Branch was stubborn and always believed he was right about everything.
Swift Pony swung around sharply, his lips curling in a snarl.
“There was no time, because we failed to kill both white men. It was more important for us to escape with our prisoners. Those women will bear us sons and ensure that our people continue.”
Broken Branch spat. “Half-breeds,” he said contemptuously. “Not white or red. We would do better taking Mexican women.”
“We will need Mexican women, too,” Swift Pony said, “but there was no reason to pass these up.” He rested his hand on the knife at his waist. “I am still war chief here, Broken Branch. You would do well to remember that.”
Broken Branch glared defiantly at him for a moment then looked away. He would push only so hard against Swift Pony’s leadership.
Ride the Savage Land Page 25
