by Ford Fargo
He was just draining the beans—while the other three had walked out of camp to relieve themselves—when he heard some shouting coming from down the slope, where an elm lined ravine cut across the meadow. Spike kept his eyes peeled at the area, while he added some salt and bacon grease to the beans.
In a heartbeat, he set the frying pan full of bacon and the pot full of beans down beside the fire to keep warm. Charley broke out of the ravine below at a dead run. Spike hustled for his Austrian and took up a prone position beside a granite outcropping, a shoulder of which would serve as a rest for the heavy-barreled weapon. It was a good thing he did, as Charley was still a hundred yards from camp when two Kiowa crashed out of the ravine on horseback, firing handguns as they came.
By the time Spike had sighted in on the leading rider, the man was only a hundred paces from Charley and closing fast. The big Austrian roared and bucked in Spike’s grip, and the leading Kiowa’s horse buckled under him, throwing the rider hard. He figured it better to stop the rider than try and kill him. The other three of his compatriots had made it to their weapons, and gunfire barked as the second Kiowa spun his horse and, laying low across the animal’s neck, wisely galloped for the elms.
Charley stopped cold, turned, eyed the situation, and strode back to the fallen Kiowa—who, although knocked senseless, was trying to regain his feet. Charley easily relieved the man of his revolver, which must have been emptied, and shoved it in his own belt. The big Bowie Charley carried was as quickly in hand, and he shanked it to the hilt, deep into the Indian’s gut, allowed him to fall, then took his hair with three clean slices of the knife. He wiped the knife blood-free on the Indian’s breechcloth, which he wore over tattered trousers. An old percussion rifle had been thrown clear and Charley walked over, picked it up, examined it, then smashed it across a nearby chunk of granite. Only then did he turn and stride casually up the hill to the camp. He’d almost reached the crest when gunfire broke out from the line of trees, kicking up dirt all around him. He took up a trot and soon dropped down beside where Spike hunkered down behind his ledge, reloading the Austrian.
“You couldn’t sleep, or what?” Spike asked him, as a couple of shots from the ravine below sung over their heads. McCain, Gallagher and Billy returned fire.
“Don’t trust those damn dirty Kiowa,” Charley said. “And a good thing. They was working up a head of steam down below that ravine, figuring on divvying up the rest of our goods and critters come sun up.” Charley turned his attention to the others for a moment. “Don’t waste your powder until you got a good target.”
“How come they saw you?” Spike chided.
“They didn’t. Damn crow got to yappin’ at me.”
“Thought you Indians could talk to the wild things?” Spike continued to chide.
“He must have been a Kiowa crow,” Charley said, “He paid me no mind.”
That brought a chuckle from Spike, but he became serious once more as he continued to watch the Indian Charley had scalped. The man was now on his knees, one hand on his profusely bleeding scalp, one on his stomach wound.
“He’s not dead,” Spike said.
“Didn’t mean to kill him quick. It be fine if he suffers a while. He’s a Kiowa.”
Spike shook his head. “Not fine. I don’t care if he’s a skunk.” He picked up the Austrian, and at one hundred-and-fifty yards, blew the man’s head apart. “Won’t suffer now,” Spike said.
“You wasted good lead on him,” Charley said.
“I wouldn’t let a rattlesnake die that hard. I saw too many men, gut shot, crying for their mamas out in some frying-pan-hot field.”
“Speaking of frying pans,” Charley said, looking around. “Is that bacon I smell?”
“Damn sure is, if you can get to it. I guess we’d better divide it up. May be our last meal.” Spike motioned to a meadow five hundred yards down the hill, where at least fifteen Kiowa braves had gathered.
“Guess we should eat quick,” Charley said, “then figure out how to best defend this damned ol’ dry hill.”
The firing from below had stopped, so Charley bravely rose and walked to the fire, retrieved a hand full of bacon and some hardtack Spike had laid out there, and returned and handed it to Spike.
“Obliged,” Spike said, then added, “they’ve split up in four bunches of three or four each. I imagine they are going to try and flank the hill. You may think I’m crazy, but we should turn the stock out before they take it on themselves to shoot them down.” He rose and headed for the horses while Charley moved to join the other men at the fire and food.
“What’s he up to?” Rob Gallagher asked.
“Turning the horses out,” Charley said.
“The hell he is,” Rob snapped, as he strode away to head Spike off.
“Hey!” Charley yelled, and Rob stopped and turned back.
“You’re a greenhorn at this. Spike knows what he’s doing.”
“But—“
“No buts. Get back here and bean up. It could be a long while before you’ll have a chance again. Loose horses is better than dead horses, don’t ya know.”
As Spike drove four of the horses away, and only held onto Hammer, his steel gray, Rob Gallagher reddened and started to stomp toward him. Charley swept a moccasin clad foot under the retreating man, and Gallagher hit the ground hard, rolled to his side, and gave Charley a look that could kill.
“He’s keeping his own damn horse and running our’n away,” Gallagher sputtered.
Charley shook his head, sighed, and explained, “He’s risking his horse, while letting ours live. And should any of us live, we’ll need a mount to round the others up. Eat your breakfast, then make peace with your Maker, for it’s a good day to die. In about ten minutes, we’ll be totally surrounded.”
Spike found a place fairly well sheltered from any fire coming from lower down the hill. He staked the steel gray out and moved to his gear. He removed a pair of hobbles from his haversack then turned to the others. “Any of you got hobbles?”
All of then shook their heads or shrugged.
Spike continued, “Any of you got a lead rope in your saddle bags?”
“I got a piece of rope,” Gallagher said grudgingly.
“Fish it out.”
Spike took it, returned to the steel gray, hobbled his front feet with the leather hobbles, forced the animal down on his side, then tied his back feet, keeping him down out of the line of fire unless the Indians got high on the hill, which would most likely no longer matter as it would mean they were in camp, and they’d all be dead.
Then men took up positions at each quarter of the compass. Each of them had more than one weapon, Charley with his Army Colt and a scarred Winchester Yellowboy studded with brass tacks, McCain with a pair of Navy Colts, and Rob Gallagher with a ‘66 Winchester Yellowboy. Gallagher’s rifle was bright and shiny—it had probably never been fired. It had been loaned to him by his boss for this venture. The store clerk also had a pair of rare newly acquired baby LeMats—he’d relieved one of the dead outlaws of that valuable load. He was now a squad of men all by himself, when it came to fire power. The Smith and Wesson he’d left town with was tucked into his waistband. Spike laid his two Rigdon and Ainsley’s in easy reach, his double barrel stage guard’s scattergun and its twenty double-aught brass shells in the crack of rock, and settled down to watch his quadrant.
At the moment, as the sun climbed, it was the only enemy in sight. The humidity seemed to keep up with the temperature as they all began to wipe the sweat from their eyes. Spike finally rose and left his post for a moment, took his canteen, and wet Ham’s lips. The big gray was no virgin when it came to being in prone position on a battlefield, but it was usually with Spike holding him down, lying across him to lay fire on an approaching enemy. The big horse didn’t like being tied down, and whinnied his objection upon occasion.
“Here they come,” Charley shouted, and Spike sprinted back to his position. Charley continued, “Don’t get in a hurr
y, they’ll run some feints first to try and get us to burn powder.”
And he was right. They rode to within a hundred yards, then broke away, dropping to the sides of their mounts away from the hilltop.
They disappeared back into the trees or the ravine, or behind a ledge where they couldn’t be seen from above. It was a quarter hour more before they came again.
Charley yelled again, “Let them get to fifty paces before you fire. They’ll make three or four of these mock charges before they hit us hard.”
Spike was happy to comply, until one of the Kiowa reined his horse up almost two hundred yards down the hill and sat, defiantly, shaking his rifle at the men above.
Taking a deep breath, quieting his heart, Spike lay down on the man. The Austrian roared and blew enough smoke that Spike couldn’t see the result, until he heard Rob Gallagher speak up. “Damn good shot, damn good.”
Spike saw the man’s rider-less paint horse galloping away, and the crumpled body of the Indian being dragged off by two of his fellows. In seconds, they were out of sight in the ravine.
“Dirty Kiowa, dog dead,” Charley Blackfeather said with a tight smile. “Odds getting better.” He barely got it out before gunfire rained down on them. The Indians were trying a new tactic, setting up in the trees and rocks to try and pick them off.
“This could be a damned long affair,” Charley said. In moments, he shouted out. “How much water you fellas got?”
“I got most of one canteen,” Spike said. “I used the other to soak the beans.”
“I got a canteen and a goat gut full,” Billy Below said. “Maybe a quart and a half.”
“A canteen and a quart of Who Hit John,” Rob Gallagher called out.
“I guess I should have filled up,” Derrick McCain said. “I only got a half a canteen.”
“It’ll be hell to pay, come tomorrow afternoon,” Charley said, and for the first time, Spike thought he detected worry in the big man’s tone. He studied the hillside below his position. “Let’s hope these Kiowa start missing their women.”
“Will they come at night?” Spike asked.
“Doubt it, but who knows? If they keep us here until late tomorrow, we may have to kill that gray of yours and chow down on him. Hot wet meat’s better than no moisture at all.”
“The hell you say,” Spike snarled. “I’ll ride him down there and take them all on before any of us put our teeth to him.”
Charley spoke without looking over, still staring down the hill. “We’ll see if you say that tomorrow afternoon. Pray to that Lutheran God of yours for rain.”
“Humph,” Spike managed.
****
They didn’t come again that afternoon. However, with the dark, they could see fires below on all four quadrants. The stars shone bright all night, and dawn came without a cloud in the sky. The good Lord would be no help with thirst quenching rain. They’d nursed their water, but all of them were sweating their internal moisture away throughout the warm night, and none of them slept. With only five of them, and each only able to watch a section of the hill, there could be no sleeping.
They were able to have beans for breakfast, but Spike wished he hadn’t salted them. They were not thirst quenching. They were down to a canteen of water each, and that was gone by noon, then, even knowing it would probably compound their thirst, they passed the bottle of whiskey around, killing half of it off. As Charley suggested, they were better off with the moisture in their gut than in their canteens.
The Kiowa waited until the sun was overhead, then began the feinting tactic again. As they had ample ammunition, and would run out of water long before they ran out of powder, the men began taking pot shots at the riders at a hundred yards distant. The Indians rode hard, staying low in the saddle, very tough targets at a swift gallop. Still, the men felt they’d hit two more and knew they’d hit one solid, as his horse had drug him over the hill, his head bouncing along the rough ground.
“It’s about time,” Charley said.
“Time for what?” Gallagher called out from the opposite side of their position.
“They’ll either give up, or charge hard. And the Kiowa don’t give up. They’ll figure we’re damn tired and can’t see worth a hoot in this bright sun, with the sweat and all, and knowing we probably didn’t sleep a blink.”
As if he were reading the enemies’ minds, they suddenly came at once, from all directions, at least four of them coming at every man.
“Hold until you’re sure!” Charley shouted.
Spike dropped a man out of the saddle with the long-shooting Austrian almost as soon as he’d topped the rise, and rather than try to reload, grabbed up his revolvers and began firing offhand. McCain and Charley were firing a slow steady pace, considering the Indians would be on them in another ten seconds, and Gallagher was firing the Yellowboy as fast as he could lever it.
All but one of the Indians turned, firing over their shoulders as they retreated. The one that didn’t turn tail was riding hard in Spike’s quadrant at a full gallop, low in the saddle, a revolver in hand.
Spike rose and fired once, missing, then both revolvers snapped on empty chambers. He clambered for the scattergun—the Indian was only twenty paces away, coming hard, screaming heathen curses. Spike barely got his weapon up as they both fired at the same time.
I’m kilt, Spike thought—he felt as if his chest had caved in, and he was blown to his back as the Indian’s mount leapt over him. His vision faded, then he felt the others lifting him. The half-empty whiskey bottle touched his lips, but he was coughing, coughing too hard to drink.
His eyes cleared and he felt for the wound, surprised he still could, as he knew half his heart had been blown away. He grasped his chest, then realized his meerschaum was smashed in his shirt pocket. He coughed again, then ran a hand inside his shirt, picking shards of pipe out of his chest, but finding no hole spurting blood.
“Damned if you ain’t still alive,” Charley managed.
“Damned—damned if I—” he coughed again, “damned if I ain’t,” Spike said, then sat up. He could see that both barrels of double-aught had blown the Kiowa brave out of the saddle, and he didn’t fare nearly so well as Spike had.
“I think—I think I done broke a rib,” Spike managed, rubbing his chest. “And that was a fine pipe, the likes of which I’ll never find again. Som’bitch kilt my lion.” He couldn’t help but grin stupidly.
“Son of a bitch,” Charley said. “You’re worried about the damned pipe? You’re lucky you got a heart and a lung.” He began to laugh as Spike collected himself. Then Spike stood, still rubbing his chest, and gathered up his weapons.
He quickly reloaded the Austrian again, catching a lot of deep breaths as he loaded the rest of his arsenal.
“Will they come again?” Spike finally yelled at Charley, as he retook his position with the Austrian again on the hard rock shoulder.
“Odds are.”
“Good,” Spike said, “I’m out of water anyway. Let’s end this, my damn chest hurts.”
But they didn’t come. And they didn’t leave.
Night fell, and the campfires below teased them again. They decided to set pickets, as they had to have sleep. Two would sleep, and two would pace from position to position, taking two-hour watches.
Morning came—to their dismay, another beautiful morning, warm and welcoming. Scissortails winged overhead, dodging in and out of a flight of crows. Had they not all had swelling tongues and throats you could strike a Lucifer upon, it would have been a morning to shout about.
Again a barrage of gunfire erupted, this time as soon as it was light enough to see. It went on, with sporadic fire until mid-morning.
Finally, Charley shouted over to Spike, “I’m ready to cut that gray’s throat and roast us up some equine backstrap.”
“You got enough folks shootin’ at you already, Charley,” Spike snapped. “We’ll finish off that quart of whiskey long before we roast my horse.”
Billy Below
gave them a quiet laugh, then said, “Oh, yeah, and we’ll be fine shots cross-eyed drunk. I’d as soon down my fourth of what’s left right before I’m being scalped.”
As he finished the sentence, all hell broke loose, and the barrage from below seemed to erupt into a crescendo of gunfire, each shot melding into the next until it seemed constant. Far more than they’d had at any time before.
Each of the men set up, ready to take on the charging Indians. To their surprise, a few of them broke from the cover of the trees, riding their way, but firing back over their shoulders. They broke away to circle the hill.
Spike rubbed his eyes, not believing what he was seeing. The Indians rounded the hill, not trying to crest their position, and more than one tumbled from his horse in the process.
What the hell was happening?
The men stared from their lofty position, waiting as the growing silence compounded their curiosity.
In moments, at least twenty riders began sifting out of the trees, and these men were in wide-brimmed hats, riding the pommeled and horned saddles of cowmen.
Spike, Charley, Rob, Billy, and Derrick rose, a little shaky from the lack of water, and watched gratefully as the men stopped at each fallen rider to make sure the Kiowa had gone to meet his Maker, then continued on up the hill.
A barrel-chested man was in the lead, white hair to his shoulders, his gray porkchop whiskers askew and bone-white handlebar mustache drooping, his blue eyes cold, hard and unflinching. He dismounted, seemingly having been more comfortable in the saddle than on foot, and walked over and extended a ham-sized well-calloused hand to Spike.
“Mister Sweeney,” he said, “I appreciate your keeping this band of hostiles busy until we could catch up and take care of business.”
