Savage Journey

by Neil Hunter

  Abruptly, the circle broke. The Comanches wheeled left and right, firing as they rode.

  Beecher felt a slug burn across his back, another clipped his left hand, taking off the top of two knuckles. But Beecher ignored the wounds, aiming and firing, concentrating only on the running ponies and their naked, painted riders, weaving about in confusing patterns before his eyes.

  Griff McBride was on his feet, triggering his gun wildly. Unlike Beecher, who took his time, Griff blazed away frantically at everything that moved. He made a lot of noise but achieved little else.

  And then Griff ran out of shells. He triggered his rifle futilely a few times, then flung it down and searched his pockets.

  ‘I’m out of shells!’ he yelled angrily.

  Beecher crouched down behind his dead horse. After a second, Griff crawled over to him.

  ‘You hear me?’

  Beecher nodded. ‘So what should I do?’

  ‘Gimme some.’

  ‘All I got are three in my rifle.’

  ‘Damn!’

  ‘Whistle an’ maybe they’ll come in close enough for you to use your pistol.’

  A muscle jerked angrily along Griff’s jaw line. ‘Smart to the end. You won’t be so smart when they get through with you . . . Mex!’

  For a moment, Beecher wasn’t sure he’d heard right. But he had. Mex! It had been a long time since anyone had called him that. He’d always taken care of those who had. Many men had gone down under his fists because they’d called him that. He had made them regret it. Now was no different.

  Beecher stared hard at the man beside him. This man he’d rode with for so long. This man he’d come as close to calling ‘friend’ as anyone. Mex. So that was how Griff thought about him.

  It bit deep. And Beecher bit back.

  Raw anger flamed inside him. A savage sound tore from his throat as he drove a fist into Griff’s sweating face. The punch landed hard and Griff tumbled away, surprise and pain showing in his eyes. Blood ran from a cut under his left eye. Beecher hit out again, catching Griff full in the mouth. Griff pawed at air, fear replacing surprise in his eyes. He scrabbled backwards, coming up against his dead horse.

  ‘“Mex” is it? We’ll see, you bastard,’ Beecher snarled.

  He lunged forward, arms reaching. Griff reared up, lashing out with his feet. Beecher took a kick in the arm, then he thrust upward, his head low, slamming bodily into Griff. The force of contact carried both men over the dead horse and into the sand beyond.

  Beecher came to his feet first. As Griff straightened, Beecher sank his fist into Griff’s stomach, then slammed two quick punches into Griff’s face. Griff took them but stayed upright. He was bigger than Beecher, heavier, though he lacked the other’s speed. Now he shook his head and set himself as Beecher came at him again. This time Beecher had his arm blocked and felt a stunning blow across his own jaw. He spun backwards, almost falling, narrowly regaining his balance.

  Neither man realized that the Comanche guns were now silent. That the Comanches were now spectators to this fight between two whites. Now, as the two white men rolled and fought in the sand, the Indians urged their ponies in closer, talking excitedly among themselves as they wagered on who would be victorious. Here, they decided, was another of the whites’ strange ways. Two men, fighting an enemy one minute, were now fighting each other, and ignoring the mutual enemy. Warriors shook their heads, puzzled. How could you begin to understand such a people? The whites were indeed a strange race. Here were these two groveling in the dust, intent, it seemed, on destroying each other. At the start they had been worthy opponents. But now! There was no honor in fighting men like these. The madness of the whites was surely upon them!

  A madness of a kind certainly gripped Joe Beecher. He let it take hold, let it drive him on and on at Griff. There was hate and anger and frustration in every blow he landed. And slowly the ferocity of his attack began to drive Griff back. Beecher slammed punch after punch into the jerking, bloody face before him, wanting to smash and destroy it. Griff could only back off, try to cover up. The Indians forgotten, he thought only of escape. Of getting away from this crazy breed bastard.

  A blow caught Griff on the side of the head and knocked him, sprawling, in the sand. He lay where he was. Tears of pain filled his eyes. He shook his head. His face was throbbing and he could taste blood.

  Griff shoved up on one elbow. He raised his head. Then he froze. A few feet from him he saw a horse’s legs. Dimly, his fuddled mind reminded him that both their horses were dead. His head snapped up. A choking cry bubbled past his lips. From the back of his pony, a painted, grinning Comanche stared down at him.

  Fear tore at Griff as he shoved to his feet. He jerked his head round. A circle of savage faces gazed back at him. Of to his left, Griff caught sight of Beecher. The breed stood motionless, his arms at his sides. Insane desperation dictated Griff’s next move. His hand dropped to his Colt. A ripple of movement swirled around the circle of Indians. As his gun came free, Griff vaguely saw a dark shape move off to his right. He spun that way.

  He was in time to see a heavy-muscled Comanche warrior bending over his pony’s head. Then the brass-bound butt of a Winchester lashed downward. Griff tried to duck, but the heavy butt slammed full-force across his skull.

  Griff’s Colt fell from his hand as he pitched forward unconscious into the sand.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Kennick came awake to the sound of distant gunfire. He sat up, shaking sleep from his head. Beside him, Jeannie stirred restlessly. Kennick got up and stood listening.

  There was no mistake: it was gunfire. A good many guns too. Somewhere out beyond the mesa.

  He turned and looked toward Kicking Bear. The Comanche sat with his knees drawn up against his chest, his head down. Kennick went across and bent over him. He saw blood on the Comanche’s wrists and hands. Kicking Bear had not been idle during the long night.

  Again the sound of gunfire drifted down the ravine. Kennick began to wonder who was out there. Could it be Griff and Beecher? But if so, why all the noise? Unless they had run into trouble. Comanche? Maybe, Kennick thought, remembering the tracks he’d seen the day before.

  Kennick knelt beside Kicking Bear and removed the gag he’d tied on. The Comanche spat into the sand, worked his bruised jaw.

  ‘Kennick, if I had my freedom you would die at my hand.’

  ‘Position reversed, I’d like as not feel the same way,’ Kennick said.

  He got up, anxious to find out who was doing all the shooting. Jeannie was sitting up when Kennick returned to her.

  ‘Is that gunfire?’

  ‘Yes. I want to find out who it is. Take the rifle and watch him.’ He nodded toward Kicking Bear.

  He picked up his hat from the blankets and creased it back into shape. Jeannie watched him anxiously. Kennick smiled at her gently.

  ‘I’ll try not to be long,’ he said.

  Jeannie tried, not quite successfully, to smile back. ‘Do that.’

  Kennick checked the rifle and handed it to her. Then turned and headed down the ravine. It took him nearly ten minutes to reach the point where the ravine opened on to the flat. Kennick took out his Colt, kept it in his hand as he moved along the base of the mesa.

  Off to the north-west, he could see a dust-haze filming the clean blue of the early morning sky. Moving fast, he made his way across the fairly open ground until he was creeping along the crest of a hard-baked ridge. Beyond the crest, the land sloped away in a series of rolling sand dunes down to a wide sand flat.

  Down on the flat, Kennick saw a bunch of Indians racing their ponies around two men who crouched between two dead horses. It was a little too far to be able to recognize faces, but Kennick didn’t have much doubt about who the two men were.

  They’d got themselves right in the middle of bad trouble. There were too many Comanches for two men to handle. The way things were going, it looked like Griff and Beecher had come to a dead end. A permanent dead end.

&nb
sp; Despite the trouble they’d given him, Kennick experienced a disturbing feeling of guilt as he sat in comparative safety and watched Griff and Beecher fighting for their lives. When, as he watched, the two fell to fighting each other, it brought a sick feeling in his stomach.

  But there was nothing he could do. He was one man alone—with a girl and a Comanche captive to look out for. Besides he told himself, he owed these men nothing. Far from it. Throwing away his life for theirs made no sense. Kennick had had any visions of noble sacrifices knocked out of him long ago. What did Griff and Beecher matter to him? Damn it! He’d been hounded and shot at by them. He’d had to kill like a wild animal because of them.

  Angry at himself, Kennick turned to go, then paused and looked back. The fight was over, he saw. Griff, unconscious, was draped roughly across an Indian pony’s back. Beecher was tied to the end of a long rope and forced to walk behind the ponies. The band of Comanches mounted up and moved out, taking their dead with them. To Kennick that indicated a camp or village nearby. The Comanches headed south. Kennick watched them for some ten minutes, until they were out of sight.

  He pushed away from the ridge, keeping low until he was well clear. Then he straightened and headed fast back to the mesa. He paused at the entrance to the ravine to check the surrounding country. He saw nothing. Maybe, for once, there was nothing to see, he told himself, and stepped into the ravine.

  The shot stopped him in mid-stride. The sound of it echoed around the ravine. For a moment Kennick stood rigid. Then he started to run, his Colt ready in his hand. The loose, shay ground was bad for running, but Kennick didn’t slow down.

  Jeannie! Her name hammered at him. It was in every beat of his pounding heart. Jeannie! if she was hurt....

  He came to the bend in the ravine. Up ahead he heard the clatter of rocks, then the whinny of a frightened horse. Kennick didn’t wait or think. He stepped around the jutting wall of rock at the bend and moved forward.

  Sunlight was bright off the ravine floor, and the heat was beginning to built up. Kennick was sweating, but it wasn’t all due to the heat. Mixed with it was the cold sweat of fear. Fear for Jeannie.

  He saw her first. She was lying in the sand and she wasn’t moving. Something like panic rose up in him, but Kennick fought it down. He wanted to go to her, but shook the longing off.

  Over to his right, something moved. Kennick dropped to one knee as Kicking Bear fired. The slug ricocheted off the wall above Kennick’s head, showering him with sharp chips. He got off a shot at the Comanche, then ran, crouching, toward Jeannie.

  Near the horses, Kicking Bear worked the lever of the rifle he had taken from the white woman. His hands were numb from being tied for so long, and his fingers felt thick and clumsy, making it hard to operate the weapon swiftly. And the man, Kennick, was as swift as any Comanche. Kicking Bear jerked the lever shut and swung the rifle after the moving target. He fired.

  Kennick felt a heavy slamming blow in his right shoulder. The force of it knocked him on his back. Frantically, he rolled, scraping the side of his face on the rough ground. He kept rolling, and a line of hastily fired slugs raised sand spout in his wake. On his stomach, Kennick saw that he was close to Jeannie. And he was aware that by getting close to her, he had brought her close to Kicking Bear’s slugs. Pushing to his feet Kennick transferred his Colt to his left hand, dogging back the hammer, swinging the weapon up and round.

  He saw Kicking Bear working the lever of the rifle. Saw the Comanche’s clumsy slowness. It was this clumsiness, he realized, that had probably saved his life. Normally, at such close quarters, the Comanche would have been a damn sight faster and a hell of a lot more accurate.

  Dizziness made Kennick sway slightly. The Colt wavered in his hand. His right arm and shoulder were numb and heavy. Kennick could feel the blood running hot down his arm and chest and back. He shook his head to clear it. At that moment, Kicking Bear aimed the rifle. Off balance, Kennick was nearly too late. Both weapons fired at the same instant.

  Kicking Bear’s slug sliced Kennick’s right sleeve.

  Kennick’s slug took the Comanche in the chest and knocked him to the ground. The rifle spun out of Kicking Bear’s hand and fell at his side.

  As the echoes of the shots died, Kennick dropped to his knees. The Colt slipped from his fingers. He fell face down in the dirt and lay still. Suddenly he hadn’t enough strength to move even a finger.

  The sun was hot on his back and the sand scoured his face. Got to get up, he thought.

  Got to. But inside a voice was telling him how wrong he was. Telling him how soft and warm the sand was. How he needed rest. Kennick realized he was losing consciousness. He had to fight it.

  He tried. He succeeded for a couple of minutes. Then he blacked out.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kennick came out of it slowly, as if he were climbing out of a deep, dark chasm. There was light somewhere, and he rose toward it gradually. He finally realized that his eyes were open and he was staring up at the sky. He heard faint sounds near him. Suddenly, he felt sharp, biting pain in his shoulder. It forced a grunt out of him and sweat broke out on his face.

  ‘Luke! Thank God! I thought you’d never wake up.’

  Kennick rolled his head in the direction of the voice. Jeannie was beside him, the rifle back in her hands. Looking up at her, he saw the raw bruise above her left eye.

  ‘You all right?’ he asked.

  She nodded, put down the rifle and helped him sit up. She passed him a canteen and Kennick drank gratefully.

  ‘Your shoulder, Luke,’ Jeannie said.

  She helped him off with his shirt. Kennick could see the slug’s entry point: a round, puckered hole just below the bone. He’d been lucky. A half-inch higher and he would have had a shattered shoulder bone. As it was, he’d lost some blood and got some pain.

  ‘How’s it look?’ he asked Jeannie.

  ‘It looks worse than it is I think. You bled a lot but it’s stopped now. Only,’ her voice trembled, ‘the bullet made a mess coming out.’

  ‘See if you can find any clothing in those saddlebags.’ Jeannie’s search produced a couple of clean, faded shirts. Kennick chose a plain gray one and tossed it to her. ‘Tear it up for bandages.’

  After a brief struggle, Jeannie tore the shirt into long strips. Under Kennick’s instructions, she closed the exit wound by pressing the jagged-edge flesh down with a folded wad of cloth and then bound his shoulder tightly. Gentle as she was, Kennick went through hell. He figured he must have sweated a good half-canteen full. The bandaging done, Jeannie helped him into the other shirt she’d found. It was a tight fit but it would serve. Kennick put his hat on and let Jeannie help him to his feet. He stood still for a moment. He was giddy and his shoulder throbbed painfully.

  ‘Will you be all right, Luke?’

  He nodded. ‘I reckon so. If I fall flat on my face, you’ll know I’m wrong.’

  Taking his time, Kennick crossed to where Kicking Bear lay. Jeannie had draped a blanket across the Indian’s chest. Blood had soaked through, in a large, dark, wet patch. As Kennick knelt, the Comanche rolled his eyes toward him.

  Tor a white you fight well, Kennick,’ he said. His voice had lost its arrogance, its fiery strength. But his eyes still shone with some inner strength that was more than physical.

  Kennick pulled away the blanket. Kicking Bear’s chest was covered with blood. It came from the ragged hole Kennick’s slug had punched. Now Kennick became aware of the harsh rasping sound that came with each breath the Comanche took.

  ‘Fetch the rest of that shirt, Jeannie.’

  He used a small wad to plug the hole, then wound a strip round the Indian’s chest to hold it in place. While Kennick was doing this, Kicking Bear lost consciousness.

  ‘Will he live?’

  Kennick shrugged. ‘I’m no doctor. He needs proper attention.’

  ‘Can he stand the rest of the journey to the river?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘You
wanted so much to get him there, Luke.’

  ‘And he was determined not to get there. Looks like he’ll get his way.’

  ‘I feel this is all my fault. I let you down.’

  Kennick touched her arm gently. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Everything was quiet. Kicking Bear seemed to be asleep. I must have let my attention wander. Next thing I knew, he was standing over me. He made a grab for the gun. It went off as he jerked it out of my hand. Then he hit me with it and I fell.... Luke, I’m sorry. I....’

  ‘You’ve no need to be. I shouldn’t have left you. Don’t fret none. It’s done. No amount of worrying will change it. What we do now, if we can, is to figure out where we go from here.’

  ‘Who was out there?’

  ‘Who—? Oh! It was Griff and Beecher. They had a run in with the Comanches who made those tracks we saw.’

  ‘So close?’Jeannie shivered ‘Are they—?’

  ‘Dead? No. Might be better if they were. They fell to fighting each other and the Comanches just up and took them. Alive.’

  ‘What will happen to them?’

  ‘Nothing nice.’

  Kennick rose to his feet and moved away. After a moment Jeannie followed him.

  ‘Something’s worrying you, Luke. What is it?’

  ‘Griff and Beecher.’

  ‘Those two! After what they’ve done to you can you still worry about them?’

  ‘Maybe that’s the difference between them and me, Jeannie. Maybe I care too much. Maybe they could go off and leave a man to the Comanches. I don’t think I can.’

  He turned to her, studying her face as if seeking an answer.

  ‘Yes, Luke, you care too much. You’re the kind who goes through life looking out for other people.’

  ‘You figure it’s wrong?’

  She put out a hand to him. ‘No, Luke, not wrong. Right. It’s a good way. It’s a feeling more people should have. I’m glad you do.’

  ‘Jeannie, maybe we can do something. One way or another, we’ve got to do something. We’ve got to change trails. First off, Kicking Bear isn’t going to reach the Brazos alive. It’s too far. I don’t give a damn how bad the Army wants him. I can’t work miracles. There’s nobody wants that Indian to pay for what he’s done more than me, but I’m not hauling a dying man round the country for the sake of a personal grudge. Or Army strategy. Red or white or blue, a man’s got a right to die in peace, if he’s able.’