The Rescuers

by Tony Masero

  Corporal Shane had parked the chuck wagon across the opening to the bowl; it did nothing to block the wide entrance but was something of a deterrent. The ponies were backed up to the rear and the men encamped themselves off to one side where the butte cliffs rose sheer and had given some shade during the day.

  Britt hunkered down with the men.

  ‘So, what is the plan, darling boy?’ asked O’Brien, passing Britt a mug of fresh coffee.

  ‘We need to bring them to us,’ said Britt. ‘With enfilading fire you’ll cut them to pieces they come in here.’

  ‘And how do we fetch them in?’ asked Shane.

  ‘Here’s how I see it,’ said Britt, taking out his pipe and stuffing tobacco into the bowl. ‘They will be holding the prisoners somewhere apart from any attack they make to get the ponies. Kilchii and I will be out there waiting for them to leave their base, you men must hold them here whilst we get in and take the children.’

  ‘And how do you find out where this base is?’

  ‘Kilchii will find it, we’ll backtrack along their line of advance.’

  ‘But first, dear lad, we have to get them here,’ said O’Brien.

  Britt struck a match against a rock and sucked his pipe alight, ‘They already know where you are,’ he said.

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I do, they won’t have missed a movement of ponies this large. They’re probably watching us right now.’

  ‘Sweet Lord!’ gasped Shane, looking around nervously. ‘You think so?’

  Britt turned to Kilchii, who nodded agreement.

  ‘We’ll be slipping out later,’ Britt went on. ‘My guess is they’ll come with the dawn, so look like you are unworried but spread out and find yourselves a good spot. I’d recommend Bellamy and Rawlings handle point up by the wagon on the way in. Governance and Shane over across the way and O’Brien here on this side.’

  ‘You mean I’m to be here left all on my lonesome?’ cried O’Brien, with a show of mock alarm.

  ‘It’s just that nobody else can stand your ignorant Irish ways,’ said Shane with a wink.

  ‘Well, bless my poor mother’s soul, what a bunch of ingratiates you are.’

  ‘Lets make this murderous scum bleed,’ growled Governance. ‘I’d like to see due payment made for Pyotowski and Zagreb.’

  ‘Aye,’ O’Brien agreed. ‘You’re right there, boyo. We need to make our mark for those two troopers.’

  ‘Very well, we’ll play it like we’re settling for the night. Let the fire die down and we’ll all move into position when it’s full dark. Kilchii and I will slide away but keep an eye out from a safe place. When the shooting starts we’ll be on our way to find the children.’

  ‘What about the ponies out back there?’ asked Bellamy.

  Britt shrugged, ‘If they break out then let them run, we’re not here for horseflesh, it’s those kids we are after.’

  ‘Seems a shame to let them go,’ added Rawlings.

  ‘You’ll have enough to do without worrying about that,’ cut in O’Brien brusquely. ‘Just make sure that your weapons are working and take extra ammunition from the wagon.’

  ‘Right you are, Sergeant,’ agreed Bellamy and Rawlings in unison.

  ‘Shane!’ said O’Brien. ‘I think this calls for a restorative nip from that bottle you’ll have tucked in your saddle bag, don’t you, dear man?’

  ‘What bottle would that be?’ Shane asked innocently.

  O’Brien wagged a reprimanding finger, ‘Do you think I don’t know your evil ways, you scoundrel. I’ve known you too long, Corporal Shane. Now get along and fetch it, will you?’

  With a sigh of exasperation, Shane went to his kit and retrieved a half bottle of whiskey.

  ‘Now then,’ said O’Brien, pouring liberally in each man’s mug. ‘A small toast to our success, death and annihilation to the enemy and may we all earn our pay this day.’

  ‘Luck to you all,’ said Britt, raising his mug.

  When the attack came it was bold and ferocious and not quite as the army men had expected.

  Bellamy and Rawlings were the first to encounter the attacking braves. They had taken cover behind the chuck wagon and both men readied themselves as they heard the rumble of oncoming ponies.

  ‘They’re here!’ called Rawlings, leveling his carbine through the spokes of one of the wagon wheels.

  The early rising sun was still low enough to cut a swathe of light across the entrance way, yet it had left the space between the buttes in darkness. By its light the two tense soldiers could see the dust cloud raised by the oncoming Indians but not yet the braves themselves.

  ‘Make ready!’ Bellamy bawled loudly, so that all the others behind them would be prepared.

  It seemed that a herd of ponies broke through the dust cloud, only one rider sat upright. The rest hung low and unseen by the soldiers alongside their pony’s ribs, with amazing dexterity the Comanche’s clung to their galloping ponies and dangled invisible to the waiting white men. It was only Oban Reese who sat up straight in the forefront, riding boldly in the saddle, his body painted in stripes and whirling a short lance in his hand. His thin young voice sounding reedy and high pitched as he shouted unintelligible screams.

  It had been a mark of Esacona’s cunning that he had placed the willing boy there; he knew it would give the soldiers good reason to pause when they identified the boy.

  ‘God’s teeth!’ cursed Bellamy. ‘Don’t shoot, that’s a white lad in their front’

  ‘But where are they?’ asked Rawlings.

  The charging band was almost upon them as Bellamy spotted the suspended riders below the pony’s necks.

  ‘They’re hanging over the edge!’ he called to his companion. ‘Bring down the ponies.’

  The war band raced by on either side of the chuck wagon in a split wave and only then did the Indians rise up from their hidden position. With whoops and loud war cries the Comanche swept in towards the restless horse herd at the back of the wide bowl.

  Both Bellamy and Rawlings commenced firing with their carbines as the charge swept past.

  As the boom of firing raced up the walls of the buttes, Britt and Kilchii were already on the move. Urging their ponies from hiding they rode down the slight incline at the foot of one of the buttes and headed fast into the trail of dust left by the Comanche.

  With a slap of his reins on the pony’s haunches, Britt hung low as the animal surged forward. He could see that Kilchii was already ahead of him, the lithe figure of the Indian close over the neck of his pony as he gazed steadily ahead.

  The trail was clear underfoot and the two riders clung to the obvious track of churned dust that headed in a straight line away towards the horizon.

  Cromwell lifted his head and peered into the hollow below him.

  ‘Is this it?’ he asked Jan, lying full length beside him.

  She nodded positively, ‘See the white girl in the blanket, that’s Elizabeth Bayerling. The little boy is Butler Royce.’

  ‘There should be another, shouldn’t there?’

  Nathan who was close behind whispered urgently, ‘Oban Reese, he should be with them.’

  ‘I only see two,’ said Cromwell.

  ‘That kid has gone Indian already,’ said Jan. ‘I reckon he’ll be riding with them.’

  Cromwell could see Kant creeping along a gully below and off to his left Warren had taken position on a ridge, his long rifle poking out before him. The sniper’s gaze was fixed on Cromwell waiting for him to give the order.

  There was only one young brave left with the two captives in the campsite below and he was dangling Butler from his hands and whirling him playfully in a circle whilst Elizabeth sat and watched.

  ‘Damn it!’ cursed Cromwell, musing over the missing boy. ‘Well, I suppose two of them is better than nothing.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Nathan, his lower position making it impossible to see what was happening below.

  ‘Be quiet!’ urged C
romwell, raising his hand to Warren. Cromwell took one last look at Kant, who was now positioned in the gully below the party, his pistol out and looking back up at Cromwell awaiting his signal.

  Cromwell smiled thinly and let his hand fall.

  Warren settled himself; making himself comfortable he tucked his chin in and took aim. Bizarrely, it was more difficult shooting downwards with the long gun at a target so close and he took his time adjusting his sight. When he was ready, Warren gently pulled the trigger.

  The young Indian twirling Butler took the bullet in the side of the head and most of his skull vanished in a burst of red. He slumped over, releasing Butler as he did so and the boy flew away to tumble onto the ground. Elizabeth whirled around at sound of the loud shot so close to them and gave a small scream as Kant lumbered up from the gully and raced across towards her.

  Butler was whimpering, at first in complaint at being dropped so rudely but then he began wailing in terror at sight of his young Indian friend with half his head opened up like a burst flower.

  Kant had leveled his pistol at the dead brave and then turned about pointing his pistol in every direction until he was sure that there were no more Comanche about.

  ‘S’alright, girly,’ he growled at Elizabeth. ‘We come to get you.’

  ‘Y…. you’ve come to save us? Oh, thank God!’ Elizabeth burst out.

  ‘Go shut that kid up, will you?’ said Kant, waving his pistol in Butler’s direction. Then he turned to look up the hillside, ‘All clear here,’ he called and Cromwell and the others began their descent.

  Clutching the crying Butler, Elizabeth looked up to see Nathan and her heart jumped in her breast at sight of him. She frowned slightly in jealousy when she saw that he was accompanied by Jan Marques.

  ‘Nathan!’ she called. ‘Look here Butler, it’s Nathan come back to rescue us.’

  ‘What happened to my friend?’ blubbered Butler, staring at the dead Indian.

  ‘You’ll soon see your real friends,’ she said, trying to calm him. ‘And your mummy and daddy.’

  ‘Want the Indian,’ Butler pouted.

  Nathan ran up to them, ‘Are you all right, Elizabeth?’

  ‘So pleased you came back for us,’ she managed.

  Nathan looked across at the bloody remains of the young brave and a wave of pity ran through him.

  ‘A shame,’ he muttered.

  Elizabeth nodded her head in muted agreement.

  It was a strange thing that they both felt. That any one of the captors could be considered with sympathy and that they should feel pity at the passing after all they had suffered. But such was the way of association with the enemy, when they had become a tangible presence and not just imagined terrors.

  ‘Well, well, young lady,’ smiled Cromwell as he came up. ‘You are safe now, we shall soon have you back with your own people.’

  ‘Who are you, sir?’ asked Elizabeth.

  ‘May I introduce Captain Cromwell,’ said Nathan. ‘The leader of this rescue party.’

  ‘Why, I must thank you, Captain. I am Elizabeth Bayerling and this is young Butler Royce. We have suffered direly but am most pleased to see you.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cromwell, studying her. ‘You do seem to have managed quite well indeed.’

  ‘Wonder how she did that,’ sniggered Kant.

  Elizabeth looked at him sharply, immediately expecting ridicule or blame.

  ‘Raymond Kant,’ Nathan told her quietly with obvious distaste. ‘A scalp hunter. The one with the rifle, they call him Warren.’

  ‘So,’ said Cromwell cheerfully. ‘We are one short. He is with the raiding party?’ he asked Elizabeth.

  ‘Yes, Master Oban Reese has gone over completely. I doubt he will want to return even if given the option.’

  ‘We going after him?’ asked Kant.

  Cromwell rubbed his jaw, ‘Is it worth it?’ he asked. ‘Perhaps we should cut our losses and take what we have.’

  ‘That’s a lot of money you’re letting get away,’ complained Kant.

  ‘I have another notion,’ said Cromwell, dipping his head so his eyes were invisible in the shadow of his broad brimmed hat. ‘Another idea completely.’

  The gunfight with the Indians was continuing with merciless ferocity.

  O’Brien was on his feet battling with two dismounted braves. His pistol and carbine were empty and he was fighting for his life against a tomahawk and a long spear. Already wounded with an arrow in the upper chest, O’Brien suffered a lance blow that drove the steel tip into the side of his stomach. Grimacing, he caught the staff of the lance in one bunched fist and with his other hand backhanded the hatchet carrying Indian a hefty blow in the face.

  The Indian lumbered unsteadily backwards on his heels as O’Brien hauled on the lance. His spear-wielding attacker hung on tight to the rear end and sought to drive the lance deeper as O’Brien struggled to remove the steel head from his gut. The battle was resolved as Kowa ran up unseen behind O’Brien and slugged him on the head with a downward blow from a stone headed club that cracked the Irish sergeant’s head open and dropped the big Irishman outright.

  Bellamy, who was wounded with an arrow through his thigh, noticed the struggle taking place and pulled off a rifle shot from the chuck wagon that felled the lance carrying Indian.

  ‘Got you, you bastard!’ he shouted with satisfaction, and then he called out to his companion at the other end of the wagon. ‘Rawlings, they have O’Brien. I’m hit, man, do you have a clean shot?’

  ‘God damn them!’ cursed Rawlings, turning swiftly to go up on one knee and take out the tomahawk carrying brave crouched over O’Brien’s body with a single carbine shot.

  A Springfield rifle barked behind him and Rawlings sprawled forwards with a choking cry as he was shot through the back. The Indian was coming on around the wagon, attempting to load the single-shot rifle as he came. Bellamy struggled to turn himself to meet the challenge, dragging his painful wounded leg as he came.

  The sun had risen enough to bring some heat into the bowl and the air was heavy with dust and gun smoke. Each party of soldiers had been effectively cut off and battled in isolation. Shane and a battle-crazed Governance fought it out against Esacona and those Comanche’s trying to get into the milling herd of ponies and drive them away. Governance, in a demented throe of anger and determination felled many of the braves before they could complete their mission and the bodies of his victims dropped beneath the rearing hooves of the terrified mustangs.

  Bellamy meanwhile, had managed to swing his carbine up as the Comanche burst into sight around the chuck wagon. Both men fired simultaneously, Bellamy’s bullet taking the Indian under the chin and lifting the top of his head off in a plume of hair and blood whilst the soldier received a body shot that spun him back against the wagon wheel behind him. He hung there, dazed and only half conscious, recognizing dimly that they were lost. The defense had not gone well and through the flurries of dust and whirling ponies he could see that only Shane and Governance held out now.

  He was startled into full awareness as he heard a long warbling scream and saw Kowa jerk upright from O’Brien’s body a bloody fistful of hair held high in his hand. Blood streamed from the scalp and coursed a trail down Kowa’s upright arm as the Indian, proudly bearing his trophy ran over towards Esacona to join the last fight going on over by the horse herd.

  Gritting his teeth against the pain, Bellamy swung his rifle around to waist height and with difficulty tracked the path of the running brave. He fired and with grim satisfaction saw Kowa spin sideways, stagger a few steps and look around with a bemused expression on his face before his head wobbled unsteadily on his shoulders and he dropped heavily to the ground.

  Bellamy slumped back against the wheel, ‘That one’s for the sergeant,’ he slurred, then his eyes rolled back in his head and he slid down to lie still.

  Esacona roared with distress and anger as he saw Kowa fall. He turned with flaring eyes towards the last two soldiers, who h
ad fortified themselves behind a pile of rocks. The ground before them was heaped with fallen braves and it was Governance, whilst screaming wildly, who loosed off shot after shot at any movement through the churned dust cloud that misted the air.

  Esacona lowered his brow and picking up a tomahawk from a fallen warrior, he made his way at the crouch, moving steadily through the mist of raised dust. With only hate in his dark eyes, Esacona came up on the figure of Governance who was howling like a mad thing and firing wildly in every direction. When he was close enough, Esacona drew back his hand and with full muscular effort launched the tomahawk through the air.

  The blade whirled a silver arc, slicing through and parting the dust cloud as it cartwheeled towards the soldier. There was a bony thud and the axe head neatly seated itself in Governance’s temple. The soldier looped away in a spinning turn, one of his eyes bulging in a glaring white ball as the pressure of the blade built up inside his ruptured skull. Blood burst in an explosive splatter from Governance’s mouth and he tumbled over.

  In a blaze of victory, Esacona let loose with a high-pitched keening cry of victory. He turned to encourage his surviving war band but was surprised to see no one standing behind him. He swung his head searching amongst the dusty crush of ponies, looking for other living Indians but he saw none.

  In despair he turned back to Governance’s body and drew his knife wanting to hack at the corpse in his rage. As he did so, a grim faced Shane lifted himself from behind the rock, his Colt pistol leveled and pointing. Esacona had barely a moment to take in the surprising appearance of the corporal; he opened his mouth wide in a final cry of anger and hate before Shane shot him clean through his straining lips.

  The back of Esacona’s head came off and he fell backwards, sitting down in the dust and staring wildly at Shane, who lifted himself up from cover and planted another bullet in the chief’s chest, slamming him down dead to the ground.