Colt crawled closer, feeling every sticker and pebble underneath him as he moved. The Comanche were all intent on torturing their prisoner, so no one seemed to be looking his way. Could he force himself to do this? He brought his rifle up and aimed and his hands began to shake. He cursed himself under his breath. “You chicken-livered bastard, this is no time to get weak. You owe this last favor to Sarge.”
He aimed his rifle, took a deep breath, and tried to say a prayer, but it had been a long time since Colt had been in church. It was terrible for the old man to die without a priest or any friends comforting him, but this was what he would want. It was difficult to get a clear shot with the warriors dancing around the fire. He watched the soldier writhing in pain as he aimed and said a final prayer for his faithful sergeant, blinked back tears, and asked God to steady his shaking hand.
“I only hope you’d do this for me if the tables were turned, old buddy,” he whispered, and then he fired.
It was a direct shot and the writhing man stopped moving, at peace at last. The warriors abruptly ceased dancing, puzzled at what had happened. Then they seemed to realize their victim was dead and they began to shout and look around, trying to figure out from where the shot had come. However, Colt was already on his feet and running back toward the arroyo. He could hear the outraged Indians behind him setting up a cry and pursuit. They had been done out of their pleasure and they would have their revenge.
Colt dived across the dead horse and almost landed on the cowering captain. “Let’s get the hell out!” he shouted, grabbed the other by the sleeve, and, half dragging him, started back toward the safety of the canyon.
The Comanche were now in hot pursuit, shouting and shrieking as they grabbed up rifles and spears, chasing the two through the moonlit night. Colt could hear them as he and the captain ran, stumbling over rocks and cactus.
It seemed a long, long way back across the prairie with the Indians hot on their trail and bullets flying around them as they ran. The wind came up strong, blowing toward them and blowing the scent of the sage and the broken weeds as they raced for their lives.
Bullets zipped around them and one of them took off Colt’s hat, but he was only glad it was a near miss. Then the captain cried out, stumbled, and went down.
“Goddamn it, get on your feet!” Colt tried to keep him from falling, but the captain had bright red blood running down his side as he hesitated and put his hand up to keep it in.
“I—I can’t! Don’t let them get me!” Scarlet blood streamed between his pale fingers and down the blue uniform.
The Indians were gaining on them. Colt hesitated. He didn’t intend to be captured alive, but he didn’t want the captain captured either. It would be so easy to run on and leave the green officer out here at the Comanches’ mercy, but he was hanging onto Colt’s sleeve now.
“Please!” he begged. “Please!”
Colt half carried, half dragged the wounded man across the prairie with him. It was slowing him down and he might not make it, but he wasn’t going to leave a wounded man for the Comanche to torture. “Don’t shoot! Comin’ in!” he yelled, “Comin’ in!”
The alerted soldiers set off a barrage of rifle fire around him, and Colt fell and rolled down the ravine, dragging the captain with him. They went all the way to the bottom, scratched and bruised by stones and brush. Colt thought he might’ve broken some bones, but at least they were back in the arroyo with the soldiers setting a defending barrage of rifle fire behind them. He dragged the half-conscious captain over behind a rock.
“Cease fire, men!” he ordered. “You’re wastin’ your ammo!”
The soldiers stopped shooting although the Comanches had gathered around the rim and were firing down in among the rocks. Here and there Colt heard a bullet strike home. “Keep under cover!” he yelled.
His heart pounded so hard, it felt like a Comanche drum and his breath came in harsh, ragged gasps, but he decided he wasn’t hurt. The captain was another story. Colt reached for his canteen and held it up to the captain’s lips.
The captain’s handsome face was pale and his blue uniform was dark with blood.
“Did—did we make it?”
“Yeah, we made it,” Colt assured him. “You’re braver than I gave you credit for, Captain.”
The captain drank deep, his hands trembling. “Thank you,” he gasped. “Thank you for not leaving me behind.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Colt snapped. “We still got a long night to go. But you can count on gettin’ that medal.” He leaned back against the rocks and reached for his makins’, then cursed as he realized he couldn’t light a cigarette, it would make too good a target.
Now he had time to think about Sarge, and his eyes blurred and he swallowed hard. He’d done the best he could for his old buddy.
“Sorry I couldn’t do more, Sarge,” he whispered. “I would have rescued you if I could.” Then he bowed his head and buried his face in his hands for a long minute. He had to stay strong because he was the officer in charge now with the captain not likely to make it to dawn. That’s about when they would run out of ammo and be overrun. He’d better give the men instructions to save the last bullet, so they wouldn’t be taken alive. However he wouldn’t tell them that yet. As long as they had some hope, he wasn’t going to dash it.
The Indians had tired of wasting their bullets shooting into the dark canyon and had retreated back to their fire and dancing. They knew better than anyone, Colt thought, that their time would come right after dawn.
Corporal Wilson crawled over to Colt. “How’s the captain, sir?”
Colt examined the officer again. He was barely conscious. “He’ll be all right,” he lied in a more positive tone than he felt.
“You got any ideas, sir?” The corporal looked barely old enough to shave and his eyes were wide with fear.
“Let me think a minute,” Colt said. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been in a tight spot.”
“The men have a lot of confidence in you, Lieutenant. What—what happened to Sarge? He’s stopped screaming.”
“He died,” Colt said softly.
“The men want to know—?”
“Corporal, just tell them I’ve got everything under control and to ration their water, okay?”
“Yes, sir.” The young corporal saluted and crawled away.
Colt leaned back and watched him go. In truth, Colt was only buying time. They were outnumbered and low on water and ammunition without the supply wagon. They hadn’t a ghost of a chance of winning the battle tomorrow morning and no reinforcements were on the way. He thought about sending out another messenger, decided against it. The Comanches would be watching for that now.
He checked the captain again, sighed, and closed his eyes, feeling the wind blowing the sweat and cooling his face. In this almost desert, it would be bone-chilling before morning. The wind. It had picked up considerably. An idea came to him. It was a wild idea, but it was the only one he had except to sit here and wait for daylight to be shot like ducks in a barrel.
“Corporal?” he yelled.
“Yes, sir?” The young man crawled back.
“I’ve got an idea, but it may be useless.”
“The men are up for anything, sir.” The young soldier looked at him eagerly.
“The wind has shifted and is now blowin’ toward the Comanche camp.”
“Yes, sir, but what—?”
“If we could get a prairie fire goin’, in this wind, those Comanche would be on the run ahead of it and maybe we could get away in the confusion.”
“What about our wounded, sir?”
“Well, we sure as hell aren’t gonna leave them for the Comanche,” Colt promised. “We’ll have to take them with us.”
“They’ll slow us down.”
Colt looked over at the almost unconscious captain. If Van Smyth made it back alive, he would have Colt court-martialed for disobeying orders. “Damn it to hell, Corporal, don’t you think I know that? But I’m n
ot leavin’ them for the Comanche to torture.”
“Yes, sir.” Colt caught the respect in the young man’s voice. “May I say, sir, it’s been an honor to serve with you? You’re a soldier’s soldier.”
“Wait ’til we get back to the fort before you say that,” Colt grinned. “None of us may make it back alive.”
“The men trust you, sir, more than they trust the captain. They’ll do anything you say.”
Colt chewed his lip, thinking. He had the rest of the patrol’s lives in his hands and it was a heavy burden. To think, if he hadn’t run away to return to his own people, he would be one of those warriors right now dancing around the fire.
“Corporal, I’m gonna try to light the fires myself.”
“Sir, there’s a couple of warriors stationed at the opening of the arroyo to keep us from escaping.”
“I know that. I was raised by the Comanche—I can deal with them.”
“You want I should go with you, sir?”
Colt shook his head. “If I’m successful, you’ll see the brush along the rim of the arroyo blazin’ soon. Alert the men. When they see that fire movin’ toward the Indian camp, they’re to be ready to move out as fast as they can and don’t look back.”
“What about you, sir?”
“Damn it, don’t worry about me. Just get these men out of here and headed back to the fort.”
The young corporal looked down at the groaning, half-conscious captain. “What about him?”
“Tie him on his horse if you have to, but don’t leave him for the Indians.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now watch for the fire,” Colt cautioned, checked the bowie knife in his belt, and began to creep up the length of the arroyo. There was a sentry all right. He could see the silhouette of the man leaning on his spear and gazing toward the camp in the distance. As Colt watched, the warrior tipped back a bottle and took a long drink. Colt could smell the whiskey from here. So that was what the war party was about, some renegade trader had sold the Comanche some firewater. Colt hoped fervently the outlaw roasted in hell for the misery he’d caused.
He crawled up the side of the arroyo and watched the warrior lean on his spear and drink. He seemed a little wobbly. Colt tossed a small rock up over the rim, where it bounced across the grass. The warrior turned to look that direction and Colt eased himself up over the rim, lying flat on the ground. He could feel his heart pounding inside his sweat-soaked blue uniform as he reached for his knife. Then he stood up and crept up behind the warrior, knife in hand.
Oh, hell. He could see another warrior walking this direction, maybe to relieve this sentry. What was he to do?
The moon went behind clouds again as Colt stepped up behind the drunken warrior and grabbed him from behind. The Comanche only had a moment to fight, but he never had a chance as Colt cut his throat and the man gurgled on his own hot blood and went down.
The warrior in the distance was still sauntering this direction. Colt could shoot him, but that would alert the whole camp. If he could just get a fire going, this prairie wind would whip it fast as a deadly red sea across the dry grass. He pulled out his little match safe and tried to light one. Damn, they were old and weren’t going to light. He only had two left. Now what?
The other warrior was still walking toward him and called out in Comanche, “Strong Bull, you have been missing the party. I will take your spot now.”
Colt grabbed the slain warrior’s spear and stood up, leaned against it, knowing in the darkness, the warrior could only make out the outline of a man. He called back in Comanche, “I am enjoying standing guard on these white dogs. You go back to the war dance.”
The other seemed only too happy to turn and leave. Colt leaned on the spear, shaking. He waited until the man was only a distant silhouette in the distance before he crouched over the edge of the arroyo. In a coarse whisper, Colt called, “Corporal, are your men ready to ride?”
“Yes, sir, we’ve got the wounded mounted, too.”
“If you believe in prayer, say one for all of us.”
“Sir, I’m a preacher’s son; I’ll say a special one for you.”
That comforted Colt somehow, although he had never thought of himself as a religious man. Colt said, “My matches may not work in this wind. In that case, I’ll have to use a pistol and that will alert the Comanche.”
“We’re ready, sir!”
Colt walked down the length of the arroyo so that he was nearest the Indians and their campfire. Behind him, he heard the soldiers riding out the other end of the arroyo.
He knelt and struck another match, shielding it with his hands from the wind. It blew out immediately. Colt cursed. He had one match left. “Please, God,” he prayed and lit the last match. It flickered, seem to catch the dry grass while Colt held his breath, and then it went out, leaving only a glowing bit of grass and smoke.
Now what? He had only one more idea and it would make noise. Maybe the Comanches’ drums and chanting would muffle the sound. Colt flipped open the barrel of his Colt, took out a cartridge. His hands shook as he broke open the cartridge and poured the gunpowder out on the ground in a tiny pile. Then he put the cartridge back together and slipped it back into the barrel.
Behind him, he heard the soldiers riding out the other end of the arroyo. If this worked, he’d have to run like hell and try to catch a Cavalry horse because there was no way he could get Rascal out of that Indian camp.
The empty cartridge would spark the gunpowder as it fired and not make as much noise. Here goes. He bit his lip and made ready to run as he fired the blank cartridge into the tiny pile of gunpowder. It sparked and caught the dry grass. For a moment, he did not think the Indians had heard the shot over their drums, but now a few heads were turning even as the gunpowder caught the dry grass and it glowed into a tiny flame. His hands shook as he delayed retreating to blow on the tiny flame that now blazed larger.
Behind him, he heard the Cavalry riding out of the arroyo and saw the Indians pausing in their dancing as the strong wind caught the flicker of fire and in seconds turned it into a roaring blaze. Now the warriors were shrieking and running toward him as the Cavalry rode their horses out of the arroyo, heading toward the fort.
Colt turned and ran as hard as he could after the fleeing soldiers. A gray Cavalry horse galloped past Colt, and using his Indian training, he reached out, caught it by the mane, and hung on. The ground was passing underneath him and he knew if he couldn’t get to the saddle, he’d be trampled by the running horse. He hung on, gritting his teeth as the fire built in the strong wind behind him. He glanced back and saw the Indians who were in pursuit suddenly stop, realize a huge prairie fire was heading straight for them and their camp. They turned and ran ahead of the flames, confusion and panic all around.
Colt used his last bit of strength to pull himself up into the saddle and now he hung onto the horse’s neck, urging it on. How he wished he had Rascal under him. He had no faith in these fancy thoroughbreds, but he knew if Rascal got a chance to get loose from the Indians’ picket line, the little mustang would head back to the fort.
The escaping Cavalry rode away from the roaring flames that had the Comanche temporarily confused. Colt joined them. They moved more slowly than Colt would have wished, but they had wounded men and limping horses and he knew they could not ride much faster. He reined in next to the half-conscious captain, who was reeling in his saddle. Colt only hoped they could make it back to the fort before the officer bled to death. They were expected back at the fort by midmorning, but when they didn’t arrive, the major might send out a search party.
As dawn came over the horizon with great paint splashes of pink and gold, Colt kept looking behind him. If the Comanches were to give pursuit, the tattered Cavalry patrol would be sitting ducks out here on the bald prairie. Every muscle in his body ached and the men riding with him weren’t much better off. Some of them were barely conscious and hanging onto their saddles. If one fell, Colt wasn’t sure any of them h
ad enough strength to get the man back in his saddle.
He licked his cracked lips and thought of water, cool water, enough to splash and drink and drink and drink. He must not think of that, he thought, keeping his stumbling horse moving forward. It was getting much more difficult to keep the captain in the saddle, and the exhausted horse might go down anytime. Then they would be in worse trouble than before.
A morning breeze came up, but it was not cool. It felt more like a fire against his blistered skin. That made him think of Sarge, and he shook his head to cut off the sound he heard in his brain of screaming. Would he never stop hearing that sound?
The captain groaned again, and Colt patted his shoulder, smelling the blood-soaked shirt the officer wore. “It’s okay, sir. We’re almost home. We’ll be there soon.”
He was lying and he knew it. As slow as they were moving and as thirsty as men and horses all were, none of them might make it back, even if the Comanches didn’t come after them.
All he could do was keep riding and praying and maybe—maybe—some miracle might happen. It wasn’t too likely, but maybe God would be merciful.
Chapter 16
It was just a little after dawn when Hannah fed her little son, and they walked over to open the sutler’s store. She had made the tea cakes and cookies for Miss Olivia’s tea, and last night, the captain’s aunt, under a Cavalry escort, had taken the stage to Galveston to catch a ship back to Boston.
She had barely opened the store and was dusting shelves and putting out new stock when a big, red-faced man in overalls came in the front door and took off his straw hat awkwardly.
“Excuse me, miss, is the owner around?”
She smiled at him. “No, I’m working here now. May I help you?”
“My sons usually bring our stuff in and deal with Mr. Hutton, but you’re a heap purtier.” He grinned and she noted he was missing a front tooth.
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