by Neil Hunter
Kennick concentrated on keeping their passage as unobtrusive as possible. He kept away from high ridges that would expose them against the skyline. Too, he tried to keep them on hard ground wherever possible, but it was seldom possible. Sand was everyplace. Though it muffled the sound of their horses, it showed their tracks only too plainly. There was nothing Kennick could do. The best thing was to keep moving, and to face problems when they came up.
Daylight was beginning to fade when Kennick saw the second line of tracks. He dismounted and checked them. Same number of horses he judged, but this time the tracks headed east. And Kennick was heading east. These tracks were only a couple of hours old. The Indians, it appeared, had ridden in a wide circle, coming in around Kennick and riding ahead. They were somewhere in front of him now.
Kennick wondered if he was riding right into trouble. Had the Indians spotted him? Were they baiting him? Perhaps they were lying in wait up ahead. Maybe they were watching him right now. He doubted that. If they’d been going to jump him, they would have done it before now. No Indian would leave an attack so close to dark. Fighting in the dark was a fool’s game, one the Indians never played.
Despite that, Kennick was uneasy. There were hostiles around somewhere. Near enough to give him cause to worry. He looked up into the sky. There would be a lot of cloud tonight. That meant they’d be short of moonlight. No night riding. He didn’t like the idea of wasting a night, but he wasn’t going to run the risk of injuring one of the horses in the dark. So tonight they would make a cold camp and catch up on some sleep.
He swung up in the saddle and told Jeannie what he’d decided and why. She nodded, and he was glad he’d been able to promise her some rest. She looked worn out.
They rode forward into the red wash of light that the setting sun flooded the land with. Sand, rock, and sky glowed with the pulsing color, and purple shadows lanced across the ground. In the same moment it was beautiful while it was savage. It was a place of extreme contrasts, Kennick thought. A man could look and see wide, clean, free country—and be looking at a cruel, broiling hellhole that took men and burned them like so many dead leaves.
Before full darkness enveloped them completely, Kennick brought them to the base of a high mesa whose rocky, sandstone sides rose out of sight into the blackening sky. Almost at once, he found an ideal spot for their camp. There was a wide fissure in the mesa forming a high-sided ravine that pushed far back into its heart. Beneath their feet, as they dismounted, the ravine bottom was littered with crumbling chunks of fallen rock. Leading the horses, they moved deeper into the mesa. High walls rose sheer and black on both sides and finally broke off jaggedly against the deep purple of the night sky. Around them satiny shadows lay like pools of ink.
The ravine turned to the left and they followed it around, the clop of the horses’ hoofs loud in the stillness. Twenty yards more and the fissure ended in a narrow, rubble-heaped dead end.
‘Not like home,’ Kennick said, ‘but it’ll like as not do.’
He saw to the horses first. Removing the saddles he tethered each mount securely. Behind one of the saddles he found a small sack of oats. He fed the animals, then watered them.
Jeannie found jerky in one of the saddlebags. She also found beans, hard biscuits, and a tin of peaches.
Kennick untied Kicking Bear’s legs and got him down.
He led the silent Comanche to a clear patch of sand they found against the dead end. The Indian sat down without protest. Kennick took a coil of rope from one of the saddles, then rolled a heavy hunk of rock close to Kicking Bear’s feet. He bound the Comanche’s ankles, then wrapped the rope around the rock, securing it tightly. He then ran the rope back to Kicking Bear’s legs. He gave the ropes a final check, nodding satisfaction.
Kennick collected the blankets from behind each saddle. He dropped one over Kicking Bear’s shoulders, then went over to where Jeannie sat cross-legged in the sand. Tossing the blankets down, Kennick sprawled beside them. He lay for a while letting his tense, tired muscles relax. The sand was warm under him. But it wouldn’t stay warm for long. Already there was a chill in the air. Kennick sat up. Jeannie handed him jerky and biscuits. They ate in silence, washing the cold meal down with lukewarm water.
Kennick suddenly had a longing for a hot bath and a shave and clean clothes. And a cooked meal. He ran his hand across his face, feeling the thick beard. He felt dirty and uncomfortable.
‘Luke, can I have a blanket?’
He started, jerked back to reality by the sound of Jeannie’s voice. She was only a foot or so away, but in the dark he could barely see her. He felt for the blankets and spread one over the sand.
Out of the darkness, Jeannie’s hand reached out to touch his face. Her fingers slid across his cheek, up into his hair, pushing his hat back off his head.
Jeannie
Then he felt her warm breath on his cheek and then lips brushed his. Her mouth closed over his with pleasing forcefulness. Kennick tightened his arms about her, feeling her body tremble against his. Locked together they lay back on the spread blanket and let the night cover them. No words were spoken. Words were not needed, as they lay side by side.
But even the closeness of each other, the wanting that surged in them, wasn’t enough to hold back the tiredness that drugged their minds and bodies. Kennick drew blankets across them. Jeannie pressed against him, her head on his arm. The steady thrust of her warm breast against his side told him she was already asleep.
He lay awake for a while. Despite his worry over Kicking Bear, he was going to have to risk a few hours of sleep. Better, he thought, to take it now than try to force himself to stay awake and find himself drifting and sluggish tomorrow. Tomorrow he would need to be alert and ready for anything. He thought of the Indian tracks he’d seen. He thought of Griff and Beecher. They were out there somewhere. Kennick doubted that even Joe Beecher could follow a trail on a night like this one. Too, if Beecher had spotted the Indian sign, he and Griff would be taking precautions. Kennick reckoned they, too, would be holed up, waiting like himself for dawn. He stared up at the overcast night sky. Dawn was a long way off yet.
Kennick slipped his Colt into his hand and lay it across his stomach. He was as ready as he ever would be. He closed his eyes, feeling the soft movement of the woman who lay against him, the softness of her hair against his cheek. He lay and listened to the mute sounds of the horses.
His thoughts drifted and he slept without realizing sleep had come.
Chapter Fifteen
The way Beecher saw it, Griff was as crazy as a loon. Before he had been bad enough. Now, with Bo dead, he had lost all control.
It was barely light, but they were already a half-hour’s ride from where they’d camped the night before. Christ, Beecher thought, and that had taken some doing. Griff had wanted to keep on riding. They’d argued for one hell of a time, Griff cursing, until Beecher had unsaddled and said he was staying and Griff could do what he wanted.
Griff had raged, but he finally stripped his saddle off and hunkered down in the sand. During the night, Beecher had heard him tossing restlessly and talking incoherently in his sleep.
Now, Beecher glanced across at Griff. The breed knew a sick man when he saw one. And Griff was sick. His face was drawn, his eyes deep-sunken and shining, as if he had a fever. A sheen of oily perspiration stood out on his dirty, unshaven face, and his lips were drawn back from his teeth. He jerked constantly from side to side, as if he suspected every hump and hollow in the ground of hiding someone or something.
Beecher reined in to light his cold cigar. This was his last one. He’d had more in his saddlebags, but now Kennick had his horse. Blowing smoke, Beecher smiled without humor. Had to hand it to Kennick. He was damned smart. That stunt he’d pulled could have gone wrong a dozen times over. But it hadn’t. Kennick had slipped away as slick as a Comanche horse thief. It had taken three hours of sitting behind scorching rocks and blazing away uselessly before the realization that something was wrong
sunk in. And then it had been too late. Three hours too late.
They’d found Kennick and the Indian and the girl gone. But Kennick’s horses had still been there, and they had suddenly known what he had done.
Bo had been lying where Kennick had left him. Their mounts were gone; a line of tracks led out beyond a ridge.
Beecher had returned to the three horses Kennick had abandoned. He’d found the empty canteens and discarded gear. Salvaging what he could, he had selected the two best horses. One shot from his Colt had disposed of the third horse.
Griff had been piling rocks on the mound of sand that covered Bo. He had raised his head as Beecher came up with the horses, and it was then that the breed had seen the madness in the man’s eyes.
‘He ain’t gettin’ away with it,’ Griff had said. ‘He ain’t gettin’ away. I’m goin’ to get the bastard.’
They had followed Kennick’s trail. It had been easy at first. But then Kennick had started to get smart, riding over every inch of hard ground he could find. Beecher lost the tracks twice. The delay didn’t please Griff any. Beecher wasn’t bothered. He would just as soon have left Griff and gone off on his own.
Then they came to the place where Kennick’s tracks had crossed with others.
‘What are they?’ Griff wanted to know.
‘Indian. Comanche. Maybe Kiowa.’
‘Goddam it to hell!’ Griff yelled.
‘Shut your fat mouth,’ Beecher told him. ‘You want every buck in the territory down on us?’
Griff spat in the sand. ‘Ah, go to hell.’
Beecher mounted up and watched Griff ride ahead.
The breed wiped a dry hand across his mouth. ‘If I do I’ll have company,’ he muttered.
There was a bitter taste in Beecher’s mouth. The cigar did little to improve matters. After a minute, he stubbed it out on the side of the saddle.
Griff was way ahead again. He was pushing too hard. Very soon, Beecher saw, Griff was going to find his horse dropping from under him. Beecher touched his hand to his gun. The way Griff was acting, he might decide to take Beecher’s mount. If he did, he was going to have a fight on his hands.
Beecher raised his eyes to the sky. It was going to be another hot one. He could taste the dry, dusty heat already. God, he could do with a drink. In a way, he wished they were nearer the Brazos. It wasn’t the cleanest, coolest water, but when a man felt like a curing buffalo hide, he wasn’t too particular. He eased up in the saddle, wishing the pain in his groin would quit. How long was it now? Three, four, five days? He couldn’t quite remember. The hurt wasn’t so acute now. But it was enough to keep him remembering, to keep him from forgetting who had done it to him.
Full light had been with them for half an hour. Already the heat was pressing down with a terrible relentlessness, bending men and horses alike.
Griff’s hard-ridden horse was almost done in, and he had dropped behind.
Beecher, a few yards ahead, rode slowly, his reddened eyes searching the ground. He had lost Kennick’s trail again. The man was getting too damned smart. It angered Beecher. This momentary lapse in the control of his emotions put him off guard.
When he finally looked up from his frustrated search for Kennick’s tracks, he stared hard, then froze, his hand dropping to his holstered Colt.
Two hundred yards away, atop a high sand dune, six Indians sat motionless on their ponies.
‘Damn,’ Beecher swore. He yanked his rifle out of the boot as the six bucks suddenly kicked their ponies down off the dune and came galloping across the sand. ‘Griff!’
Griff’s head snapped up. He saw the approaching Indians and his face muscles jerked spasmodically. He reached for his rifle.
The lead warrior opened up with his stolen Winchester the second he was within range. He was a good shot. His first slug clipped Beecher’s left stirrup. The second one hit Beecher’s horse, dropping it instantly. Beecher kicked free from the stirrups and hit the sand on his feet. He spun and dropped down behind his fallen mount as the Indians opened up with a heavy volley. Beecher could feel the impact of the rifle slugs hammering into the dead horse.
Griff saw Beecher’s horse go down and he reined in his own alongside. Ignoring the slugs slicing by him, he swung out of the saddle and putting his rifle to his horse’s head, pulled the trigger. The horse jerked violently, then shuddered. Blood sprayed from its nostrils, spattering Griff’s shirt. The animal fell to its knees then rolled on to its side. Griff got down behind it.
The Indians swept by them, splitting into two groups that went to each side of the two men crouched between the fallen horses. Dust boiled up thickly in great blinding, choking clouds. At this point, it was impossible for accurate shooting. The Indians regrouped when they were well beyond, swung around for another run.
Beecher waited until they were moving. Then he rose to his feet, his rifle at his shoulder. He aimed fast and fired faster. His first shot downed the lead horse. His second shot hit a warrior in the chest, dropping him from his mount. With his third shot, Beecher planted a slug in a painted shoulder that became red and wet.
Griff got off two shots, the first missing, the next one hitting a yelling buck full in the face.
Dust obscured the scene again as the ponies thundered past, their riders firing blind. Beecher felt a burning pain lance down his left leg from knee to ankle. The leg collapsed and he sprawled on his face.
The surviving three Indians headed back for the top of the dune where they turned and sat looking down on the dusty little battlefield.
A rifle sounded. Beecher sat up. Griff lowered his rifle, and the warrior whose pony Beecher had dropped flopped over on his back and lay still. Blood spurted from his throat.
Beecher pulled his pants up and had a look at his leg. The slug had gone through cloth, the leather of his boot, and into flesh. Beecher dragged off the boot. Blood dribbled down his leg, stained his foot. The slug had ripped a gash about a quarter inch deep down the length of the calf. Beecher pulled off his kerchief, shook it free of dust and bound it around the top of the gash. The bleeding would soon stop. He pulled on his boot again, worked his pants down over it.
He glanced over at Griff. ‘Three out of six ain’t bad for one day,’ he said.
Griff didn’t reply. He was staring hard in the direction of the Indians. Beecher turned his head, squinting his eyes against the glare of sun and sand.
‘The sons-of-bitches,’ he spat.
The three Indians were no longer alone. Silently, unnoticed, about fifteen more mounted warriors had joined them. Stone-faced, they sat their ponies in a long line atop the dune.
Beecher could make out tribal markings now. He said, ‘Penetaka Comanche. At least we know who’s goin’ to kill us.’
‘Shut up,’ Griff growled. ‘You goin’ to die laughin’?’
Beecher grinned, wiped his hand across his sweating face. He searched his pockets for rifle shells and reloaded.
A distant yell reached them. They looked to see the Comanches streaming down the slope of the dune. As they reached the base of the slope, the warriors again split into two groups, heeling their ponies to the left and right. Each whooping party raced in a big half circle. When the lead riders of the groups met, the whole band pulled up, facing their ponies toward the two white men in the center of the circle.
Beecher sat back against the bulk of his dead horse. He held his rifle across his knees. He took off his hat and ran his hand through his thick hair, then replaced the hat. Once more he searched his pockets, came up with the remaining cigar stub. He’d been saving the smoke for when he’d settled up with Kennick. The way it was going now, it looked as if Joe Beecher was heading for a settling of his own.
He lit up and flipped away the match. Beecher wasn’t a man to try and fool himself. Coming out of this would take a lot of luck. And he didn’t believe in that sort of thing. The only thing that got a man out of trouble was himself and what he had in him. A man would need to have a hell of a lot in him
to get out of a spot like this. There it was, though. He had no regrets. He’d lived all his life out here, and he knew the odds a man faced. A man had to take what came his way, the good things along with the bad. It was that kind of life.
Joe Beecher didn’t want to die. Who did? But he wasn’t going easy. If this day was his last, it would also be the last for a lot of stinking Comanches. He looked out at them. Sitting there like stupid dummies! He knew the ways of the Indian. They might sit there for hours, waiting for the strain to tell on him or Griff. So the hell with ‘em!
Beecher glanced across at Griff, who was trying to push shells into his rifle. Griff looked as if he’d messed in his pants. Beecher laughed softly and Griff snapped a look at him. The state Griff was in, Beecher thought, those Comanch’ weren’t goin’ to have much of a wait!
A rifle shot spanged through the hot air. Sharp commands in Comanche whiplashed around the circle of braves. Ponies wheeled and began to move. Slowly the human circle began to rotate, in a clockwise direction. The sun reflected brightly from weapons and ornaments. It was a savage, terrifying display, yet it held the attention with its barbaric splendor. Now the pace quickened as the ponies were pressed to greater speed. A gallop was reached and held.
‘Come on, you yeller sons-of-bitches!’ Beecher yelled. ‘Quit playin’ ring-around-the rosy. Come on in and get your goddam guts blown out, you filthy bastards!’
As if in compliance with his words, the circle began to close. Each warrior brought his pony close up to the one ahead, and the circle dipped in toward the waiting men. The Comanche guns opened up in a ragged volley of shots.
In the seconds it took the wheeling riders to reload, Beecher and Griff raised up and began to trigger off shots into the circling mass. One warrior went down, then a pony stumbled and fell, tossing its rider out of sight beneath galloping hoofs.
Back to back, the two men fired into the spinning wheel of men and horses. Despite the movement of the targets, and the swirling dust, they downed horses and riders with steady regularity.
