by Neil Hunter
Kennick moved out within half an hour of full dark. On foot, armed with his Colt and a knife.
‘You stay put. You’ll be safe enough in this hollow. Remember what I told you. If I’m not back by first light, get the hell out of here fast. Remember what I told you about direction? Okay. And what else I told you? But that won’t be necessary. I’ll be back, Jeannie.’
She clung to him tightly for a moment, her mouth warm on his. Then she pushed him away, saying, ‘Go now,’ her voice husky.
Kennick scrambled out of the hollow they had holed up in, pausing at the top to get his bearings by the stars. Then he headed out across the silver land of light and dark patches, retracing the way they’d come earlier. He moved at a pace that would eat up the distance without tiring him too much.
As he walked he found himself reflecting wryly on the oddity of man. A man could hate or fear or despise something, but put him in a particular place at a particular time, and the odds were in favor of him doing everything he could to help or to keep intact whatever it was he hated, feared, or despised.
There was no stranger creature on Earth than man. He sometimes acted as if he didn’t have the brains of a gnat. All in all, Kennick figured, man was a funny animal, but right now that didn’t give him much comfort. What was he doing out here, doing what he was? Or had he just answered that? Looked at straight, he was risking his life for two men who weren’t really worth it. Why? Because he was a man. And man was a funny animal.
Kennick shook his head. He needed clear thinking for what lay ahead. Cool, clear concentration. He glanced up at the black sky. And no damn moon!
Kennick lay on his stomach, at the edge of a clump of brush, looking downslope at the Comanche village.
It seemed asleep, except for a buck guarding the pony herd up at the far end, and another buck squatting on his heels outside a tepee at Kennick’s end of the village.
Kennick reckoned his luck was in. He was sure he would find Griff and Beecher in that tepee. The Comanches didn’t go in for sentry duty as a rule, save for keeping watch on horse herds, or particular prizes—like white captives.
Kennick watched the scene for a while. It was very inviting. Almost too inviting. He wondered, briefly, if he was being suckered into a trap, but rejected the idea. If the Comanches had wanted him, they would have taken him when he was in the village, when they could have had Jeannie too. No, this was just a natural opportunity. He had to move now, and fast.
Snaking forward, he began the long, slow crawl down the grass-dotted slope toward the village. He moved a few feet at a time, stopping often. It took him more than twenty minutes before he completed his journey crawling in a large semicircle around the edge of the village. Only then did he rise to his feet and, at a crouch, move up to the rear of the tepee he wanted. The Comanche guard up front was a danger Kennick had to dispose of. But in such a way that it wouldn’t be noticed.
Kennick crept silently round the base of the tepee, his Colt held by the barrel. He paused a moment, only feet behind the motionless Comanche. The buck seemed to be dozing, his head down on his chest, his rifle held loosely in his crossed arms. Kennick didn’t waste time. He took two swift steps forward, brought the butt of the Colt down hard on the Comanche’s skull. The buck toppled over silently. Kennick hauled the Indian back into sitting position, propped him up with his rifle.
He froze suddenly as a sound reached him. After a moment, he realized what the low, one-note wail was. The women were singing for the dying warlord. In one of the tepees, they would be gathered round him, keening the age-old Comanche chants that told of a warrior’s fame and prowess and lamented his dying spirit. It was a lonely, eerie sound that floated through the silent village.
Moving cautiously to the rear of the tepee, Kennick used his knife to cut a slit in the hide wall. He worked silently, the realization strong in him that he could be wrong about the occupants of the tepee. Well, he would soon find out. He wormed through the slit he’d made and paused, motionless.
The gloom of the interior was only faintly lit by a small, glowing fire in the center of the tepee. Kennick held the Colt ready as he stared into the grayness, and wondered if he would have to use it.
Chapter Twenty
For a moment, Kennick was sure he was in the wrong tepee. Then he heard a muttering in the shadows, and relief washed over him. No Comanche ever uttered words like that.
As his eyes became adjusted to the gloom, Kennick saw the two figures stretched out on their backs on the ground, staked down.
‘McBride! Beecher!’ Kennick whispered.
‘What? Who the hell...?’ Kennick smothered Griff’s rising voice with his hand.
‘That you, Kennick?’ Beecher asked softly.
‘Yes! For God’s sake keep the noise down.’
He moved swiftly then, cutting the rawhide thongs tying them down. Griff sat up, rubbing his wrists, cursing softly. Beecher knelt beside Kennick, his eyes shining in the glow from the tiny fire.
‘Grateful, Kennick. But why?’
Kennick glanced at him. ‘I don’t know. And we haven’t got time to waste figuring it out. Let’s get the hell out while we can.’
He led the way, following the route he’d come in by. Slowly, silently they made their way up the slope to where Kennick had lain watching the village. They had a long way to go, and they didn’t know how much time they had. At the moment, the village was silent and still behind them. But there was no way of telling how long it would remain so.
They headed out across country. After half an hour, Kennick called a halt. He squatted, hunching his shoulders against the night’s chill.
‘You got horses?’ Griff asked suddenly.
‘One spare. You can have it between you. And go on your own way.’
Griff spat at that and Kennick added, ‘Cross me again, Griff, and I’ll drop you. I’m through running. I figure we run this thing its course.’
Griff turned his head. ‘An’ maybe I don’t.’
‘Leave it for now, Griff,’ Beecher put in. ‘We got trouble enough ‘cause of you.’
‘It weren’t your brothers he kill—’
Kennick came to his feet in one swift movement. He hit Griff across the mouth with the back of his hand. The blow sent Griff sprawling. He lay on his back, staring up at Kennick.
‘You want it now?’ Kennick asked. His Colt was out, aimed at Griff’s head. ‘I could settle it right now.’
Fear showed in Griff’s eyes. He looked toward Beecher, but realized instantly that he could expect no help from the breed. The slender bond between them was gone now. Beecher might well do the job himself, if Kennick didn’t.
‘You won’t shoot, Kennick,’ Griff said then. ‘A shot out here would bring every buck in that village down on us.’
‘There are more ways to kill a man than shooting him,’ Kennick answered. He let the hammer down and lowered his Colt. Griff breathed easier, sweat breaking out on his face. Kennick had come close then. Griff made up his mind to tread easy for a while. In his present mood, Kennick was as touchy as a rattler, and apt to be as deadly.
‘Let’s move,’ Kennick said.
Beecher moved out after him. Griff lay where he was for a moment. He felt the empty darkness close in around him and for an instant, he was back in the Comanche village, surrounded by hostile faces that jeered and spat at him. And he could almost feel again the pain of the blows that struck him as he was pushed and dragged around the village. He had been scared and it had showed. Beecher had gone through it all without any sign of what he felt showing on his face. The stupid Mex bastard!
Out in the darkness somewhere was a rustle of sound. Griff jumped to his feet in a flurry of movement. It might be Comanches. He plunged forward into the blackness. There was barely enough light to move by. He fell twice. The second time he grazed his face on a rock and felt warm blood run on his chin. Shoving to his feet, he only just caught sight of Kennick and Beecher before they vanished over a long ridge just ahead.<
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Griff found himself wishing desperately for a weapon. A gun, a knife, anything would do. God knew what they might run into out here. And Griff had no desire to fall into the hands of the Comanche again. Christ, a gun, any damn thing. What could a man do with his bare hands?
Kennick had a gun and a knife. But he wouldn’t let Griff get near them. He’d have to wait. Maybe when they reached the horses. Griff knew he couldn’t rely on Beecher to back him. He would have to go it alone. When they reached the horses, he would make his play. Griff grinned to himself, a little of his old cunning returning.
Kennick’s right hand rested firmly on the butt of his holstered Colt as he led the way through the night. He wasn’t risking having the gun snatched from him and maybe used against him. That was a distinct possibility with men like Griff and Beecher around.
Beecher, though, Kennick reasoned, had enough sense not to try anything so close to the Comanche village. But once they were away and safe he would bear very close watching. On the other hand, there was Griff. He was liable to do anything, no matter where or when. He was lagging behind now, and Kennick had an uncomfortable feeling in his back. That was the kind of man Griff McBride was.
‘That was a fool stunt you pulled,’ Beecher said, out of the darkness, ‘bringing that Comanch’ into the village.’
‘You heard?’
‘I heard some of the bucks talkin’. Seems they were a slight grieved over you bein’ allowed to ride out carryin’ your hair.’
‘I got a similar impression,’ Kennick said.
‘You shoot him?’
‘Had no choice.’
‘Been me, I’d still be ridin’.’
Kennick didn’t need telling that. He knew what kind of man Beecher was. One of that breed who had little respect for anything. Especially other men’s lives.
They covered the rest of the way in silence. Jeannie heard them coming and hid herself, the rifle ready, until she heard Kennick’s voice. With a sigh of relief, she ran out to meet him. She drew back at the sight of the two dirty, bloody men with him.
‘Everything all right?’ Kennick asked.
‘Yes. Any trouble?’
‘None to speak of. But it won’t stay like that for long. We’re getting out of here now. It’ll be light in a while. I want to be long gone by then.’
Beecher had thrown himself down on the ground. Now he propped himself up on one elbow. He stared up at Kennick. ‘Man could use a gun out here.’
‘I’m giving you a horse,’ Kennick said. ‘Be thankful for that. I could leave you on foot.’
‘You might just as well do that,’ Griff said shortly.
‘You wear a man’s patience awful thin, Griff. Why don’t you shut up and remember you’re still alive.’
Kennick turned his back and began checking the horses. Out of the darkness a bulky figure hurled itself at him. Griff smashed hard into Kennick, slamming him up against the unyielding side of one of the horses.
The breath was hammered from Kennick’s body and his shoulder exploded with fresh pain. He could hear Griff’s harsh breathing as the man pounded at him. Then he felt his Colt being yanked out of the holster. He tried to stop Griff but was just that fraction too slow.
Griff freed the gun and raised it above his head. Kennick sensed the coming blow and tried to dodge it. Again, he was too late.
The darkness around Kennick exploded like a fireworks’ display as the gun slammed across his head. Grunting with the effort, Griff swung the gun again, chopping at Kennick’s unprotected head viciously. The light before Kennick’s eyes spun, then faded to grayness. From a long way off, he heard a babble of voices. Then they were silent, and there was only the darkness into which he slowly sank, turning over and over like a leaf drifting down from a tree in autumn.
‘I figure I might as well stick with you,’ Beecher said.
‘Your choice,’ Kennick muttered. His head ached close to bursting.
He had come around to find Griff, the horses, and all their weapons gone. He had called himself every kind of a fool for turning his back on Griff, giving him his chance. But that wouldn’t do much to help.
Griff had left them in a fine mess. No weapons, no mounts, no food or water. Kennick had reckoned they had been about as deep in trouble as they could be before. Now he saw how wrong he’d been They were going to have a damn long walk before they got out of this. Plus the problem of a bunch of angry Comanches, who would be scouring the countryside for them come dawn.
Kennick glanced across at Beecher. ‘Which way did he go?’
‘Griff? More or less east. He’ll be makin’ for the Brazos. Ain’t nothin’ for him anywhere else. Seems I heard him talk once about some fellers he knew ‘cross the river who owed him a favor. Like as not he’ll be after gettin’ himself a stake, then headin’ out.’
‘Figure he’ll make it?’
‘Not the way he pushes a horse. And those three ponies are near enough done now.’
‘You two must have had some bust-up for you to stay behind.’
Beecher stared hard into the dawn sky. ‘Yeah. Some bust-up.’ He looked at Kennick. ‘But I ain’t forgettin’ our settlin’, Kennick. I got that to come yet. You beat me at Cameron, and I want things evened out.’
Kennick moved away and joined Jeannie. She asked, ‘Can we make it, Luke?’
‘Won’t know until we try,’ he said.
Beecher led the way out, his keen eyes following Griff’s trail easily.
Two hours after sun-up they saw their first Comanches. Six of them, riding in a single file along the crest of a distant ridge. The six were heading west at a walk. Kennick pulled Jeannie down beside him as he saw Beecher drop. They lay motionless in the dirt, watching as the Indians moved along the skyline, so very slowly it seemed.
Beside him, Jeannie trembled so hard that Kennick could feel it. He put an arm across her, motioning her to silence when she looked about to speak. Though it seemed like hours, they were there for only minutes. Then the Comanches rode out of sight. Beecher waited a while longer before he rose and led out again.
During the long morning, they were forced to stop and hide themselves three times. One group of eight Comanche warriors passed within feet of where they lay concealed in a tangled bed of mesquite.
By mid-afternoon, they were apparently clear of the Comanche search-area. But they weren’t certain. They couldn’t be certain. And they couldn’t allow themselves to think they were safe. As long as they were in this part of the country, they could expect to see Indians. They kept up their watch as they moved slowly across the hot, empty land of sand and dust. Beecher followed Griff’s tracks easily. In his haste to get away, Griff had left a trail anyone could follow. Certainly, Kennick realized, it would be no trouble for the Comanches. Had they picked up Griff’s trail? Or had they missed it by some lucky chance? It was possible out here in this vast, rugged country. He hoped so.
Gradually, the terrible heat began to tell on them. Jeannie, despite her uncomplaining doggedness, was the first to weaken. Kennick had to help her along, his arm around her waist. Their sweat-soaked clothing became crusted with fine dust which also coated their faces and hands. Under the grimy masks, the skin was dry and taut. Eyes smarted painfully from the harsh glare of the sun that reflected from the ground. Throats were dry and gritty, producing a strong longing for water even though the act of swallowing was an ordeal. With each step, the effort to move was made more exhausting. Booted feet felt swollen and heavy, as though twice their normal size and weighted down.
When Beecher found the first dead horse, he was barely able to call out. His voice came out as a dry rattle of sound. Kennick gave the dead animal a brief glance. The horse had been run to death. It was as simple as that.
‘He’s riding them into the ground,’ Beecher croaked. His lips were almost black, split and bloody. ‘He’s crazy! Crazy as a goddam loon!’
Kennick didn’t bother to answer. He kept on going. He had the dread thought that if he
stopped, he wouldn’t be able to move again. He wanted one thing only: to get out of this desert land alive. To get Jeannie away from all this torture and fear and death. He was sick of the whole business and his part in it. Why in hell had he answered Broughton’s summons? Here and how, all his reasons that had seemed so worthwhile, meant nothing confronted with the bitter facts of the situation.
Before him, faces shimmered in the rising heat waves. Broughton. Bren O’Hara. Kicking Bear. Bo McBride. Dominating them all was Griff McBride’s: eyes wild and staring, lips silently mouthing threats and damming accusations.
Kennick shook his head, blinked his eyes furiously to banish the phantoms from his tired brain. He wondered if he would ever be rid of Griff, knowing with a sinking feeling, that it would only end when one of them was dead.
It had all been for nothing, Kennick thought bitterly. The Army’s plan to use Kicking Bear to bring the Indians to the peace table was finished. Kennick had tried, but failed to put it through. That failure only added to his frustration and anger.
Maybe his desire to right the past had been wrong. He was beginning to realize that what was past was done and could not be changed. No amount of guilt, of atonement would make any difference to what had already happened. Surely, the example of Griff should have shown him how a man’s thinking could be twisted.
Griff’s lust for revenge had cost him the life of another brother. And now he had been driven to frantic flight, leaving three people alone and defenseless in this savage, hostile land. To die, maybe. And for what? What would it all prove? Nothing, Kennick told himself. Damn all! The only good thing to come out of it all, he saw, was Jeannie. But even that might turn to tragedy, if they didn’t come through this alive.
It was late afternoon when Beecher’s voice forced itself on Kennick’s attention. The breed was telling him to get down. Jeannie flopped limply to the ground when Kennick released her. He bellied down and moved up alongside Beecher.
‘You see the bastard?’ the breed asked.
Beyond where they lay the ground fell away in a long, broad slope down into a vast basin that had been a lake long ago. Now it was just an oval flat of cracked, eroded earth. Midway down the slope lay another downed horse. And beyond, in the shimmering flatness of the basin, Kennick could make out the blurred figure of a man walking a limping horse.
