by J. T. Edson
While the other two guessed they were being used to further Robbins’ ambitions, neither could suggest a better plan. So they gave the necessary orders and withdrew up the slope.
‘Looks like they’ve had enough for now,’ Mark said, watching the retreat.
‘Don’t mean us to sneak away though,’ Dusty answered, indicating the men who had taken cover at various points along the opposite slope.
At that moment the Kid arrived, darting from cover to cover and settling at Dusty’s side.
‘Heard the shooting and watched ready to cut in from the flank—’
‘Just like a danged Comanche, all treacherous and sneaky,’ Mark put in.
‘Least we can hit something when we burn powder,’ answered the Kid. ‘All you did was make near misses.’
‘How’s it look, Lon?’ Dusty said, before his friends could begin their often repeated wrangling.
‘Waal now, Dusty,’ the Kid replied. ‘I’d say Ka-Dih’s done forgot his wandering boy.’
‘How’d you mean?’ Dusty asked, knowing Ka-Dih to be the name of the Comanche Great Spirit.
‘I done found a wild melon patch, but they’re all over-ripe—and there’s no way up that wall.’
‘None?’
‘Nary the one,’ the Kid confirmed. ‘Down where the wall comes on to the water, the river flows too fast for us to ride through.’
‘How about upstream?’ Mark inquired.
‘Near on the same. Deep water and no chance of riding through it fast.’
The Kid did not need to elaborate on his information. Without having it explained to them, the others realized their crossing of the river must be fast.
‘Looks like I’ve landed you in a real fuss, Dusty,’ Wes said.
‘He’d’ve found some way of doing it, even if you hadn’t,’ Mark assured him.
‘You can bet on that,’ the Kid agreed, noticing some new arrivals across the river. ‘Ole Dusty can find trouble just by—hey now, look up there. Damned if they’ve not got an itty-bitty cannon on a pack hoss.’
Following the direction of the Kid’s pointing finger, Dusty watched Eli ride up leading the loaded pack horse and accompanied by a small escort. For a moment the small Texan thought his companion was correct in identifying the thing on the horse’s packsaddle. However the lack of wheels caused Dusty to make a more careful examination. He noticed Robbins galloping up the slope, but gave most of his attention to the Negro. When Eli dismounted, lifted down the launcher and set it upon the bipod legs, memory clicked for Dusty.
‘Hell’s fire!’ the small Texan breathed. ‘That’s no cannon. It’s a Hale Rocket Launcher. Wes, that Negro’s with the State Police. Maybe that’s how your house caught fire.’
‘Huh?’ Wes asked.
‘That thing there fires a rocket loaded with “liquid damnation”. Happen the State Police up your way had one along, they could easy set fire to the house; fixing to drive you out for the guns.’
‘Only I wasn’t there!’ Wes spat out. ‘Flip and Doc James come through the door and got shot down.’
‘You figure they aim to use that thing on us, Dusty?’ asked the Kid.
Already Robbins was standing by the rear of the launcher, adjusting its elevation and lining the sights. Working just as fast, Eli unloaded a rocket from the panniers and brought it to his employer.
‘I figure that’s just what they aim to do.’ Dusty agreed soberly.
‘We’ll have to stop them,’ said the Kid.
Much as Dusty wanted to avoid bloodshed, he knew it would no longer be possible. Everything Wes had told him convinced Dusty that his cousin was innocent of killing the sheriff and had shot down the State Police officers in defense of his own life. The treacherous attack on them proved that the posse did not intend giving Wes a chance to surrender. Nor would they be inclined to overlook Dusty, Mark and the Kid’s part in the affair. Given the chance, the State Police would cut them all down and think nothing of it.
So Dusty gave the order. ‘Stop them!’ he said. ‘Get ready to cover Lon while he’s doing it.’
Carefully the Kid moved forward and estimated the distance. Taking off his hat, he placed it on the ground before him and rested the rifle’s barrel on its crown. Then he settled down to the business of taking a very careful aim.
Despite its maker’s claims, the Winchester Model of 1866 rifle lacked accuracy at all but short range. While the leaf of the backsight carried graduations from one hundred to nine hundred yards, the Kid—stout Winchester supporter though he might be—admitted to himself that the upper distances were no more than wishful thinking on the part of the manufacturers. Twenty-eight grains of powder did not push the two hundred grain bullet with sufficient force to maintain a reliable flight at ranges of over three or four hundred yards. The results at greater distances, even in a master marksman’s hands, left something to be desired.
Moving the slide of the sight up to the six-hundred-yard mark, the Kid studied all the other factors which affected a bullet’s flight. He estimated the wind’s speed and direction, tried to make allowance for slight variations in the quality of the powder, then prepared to shoot.
All the time the Kid worked, his companions kept a watch on the men across the river. If any of the posse saw the Kid’s actions, and he tried to avoid attracting their attention, none made a move to prevent him. Satisfied that he could not improve on the lining of the sights, the Kid gently squeezed the trigger.
On the slope overlooking the Texans’ position, Robbins was taking just as great care in setting up the launcher. So engrossed did he become that he paid no attention to certain significant activity across the river. Coming up, ignoring the way the other Negroes stood well clear, Eli looked across the valley.
At that moment the Kid’s rifle cracked. He aimed at Robbins and his rifleman’s instinct told him that he missed. However, despite his early comments it seemed that Ka-Dih still remembered the Kid. Blown off its desired line, the flat-nosed B. Tyler Henry bullet caught Eli in the shoulder. Letting out a screech of pain, the Negro spun around. Yet he still managed to retain hold of the rocket and did not let it fall to the ground. Not until he sank down to his knees did Eli allow his burden to leave him. More than that, he slid it base first on to the grass.
Sweat broke from Robbins’ face as he saw the Negro hit and he took a hurried pace to the rear. In doing so he saved his life. Changing his aim while working the Winchester’s lever, the Kid sent another bullet winging up the slope. It whipped by Robbins’ head with an eerie ‘Splat!’ sound and caused him to retreat again. Shots cracked from the posse and rifles across the Sulphur answered them. The efforts of Robbins’ companions did not prevent a third bullet coming from the original Winchester. As if jerked by an invisible hand, Robbins’ hat flew from his head. He needed no further warning. Somebody on the other shore had recognized the Hale launcher for what it was and was taking steps to counter its menace. Using it under those conditions would be dangerous in the extreme.
As Robbins threw himself into cover, the shooting died down and ended. He looked past the launcher to where Eli was crawling slowly and painfully towards cover. A low, disappointed curse broke from Robbins’ lips as he realized that his assistant would not be able to help. Handling the rockets and launcher was work for at least two trained men. None of the other members of the posse possessed the knowledge to take Eli’s place.
‘How about it, Robbins?’ demanded one of the Delta officers, coming up.
Annoyance at the other’s attitude filled Robbins. The man was tall, lean, unshaven, wearing buckskins and moccasins, with a long-bladed Green River knife balancing the Colt at his belt. Rough, uncouth, truculent, Seth Salter also held rank as captain in the State Police and showed that he did not take kindly to Robbins butting in on what would be a profitable capture.
‘How about what?’ Robbins countered.
‘When’re we going to see that fancy gadget work?’
‘One of them down there knows w
hat the launcher’s for and doesn’t aim to let me use it. He’s already dusted my hide and put lead into my Negro.’
‘That’s tolerable fair shooting for a cowhand,’ Salter remarked, eyeing the distance to the river. ‘Pull back a piece and see how he does.’
‘If I pull back any more, I’ll be over the rim and can’t lay aim on them,’ Robbins pointed out.
‘Then that there fancy doo-hickey’s not much use to us after all.’
‘The hell it’s not. We’ll wait until after dark. When they can’t see us, I’ll settle them but good.’
‘And they’re just going to sit tight and let you do it?’ Salter sneered.
‘We’ll keep men watching the river where the rock wall comes down to the water,’ Robbins explained, holding down his anger. ‘Then after dark move the others in closer and I’ll drop a few rockets over there.’
‘Only them Texans’ll’ve gone up the bluffs and be headed for the border.’
‘I’ve studied those bluffs behind them through my glasses,’ Robbins stated. ‘There’s no way they can take horses up and they’ll not go on foot. I’ll bet they’re fixing to wait until after dark, then rush us. Tell the men to take the horses back over the rim—’
‘Who’re you giving orders to?’ snapped Salter.
‘We tried it your way,’ Robbins answered. ‘If you want to try again, go right ahead. Only none of my bunch’ll be with you. Those Texans weren’t missing through bad aiming.’
‘Damn the sons-of-bitches!’ Salter spat out. ‘If I could get among ’em I’d see how good they aimed.’
‘I bet you would,’ Robbins replied dryly. ‘Let’s get things ready, shall we?’
Not only Robbins gave thought to the next line of action. From his place on the other bank of the Sulphur, Dusty watched the two men come together and guessed at their conversation. While he did not know of the undercurrents between Robbins and Salter, he knew they would be deciding what to do next.
‘That’s got them worried,’ he said. ‘I’ll bet they don’t make another move afore dark.’
‘What’s that thing they was fixing to use?’ asked the Kid.
‘A launcher for rockets, likely using the Hale kind,’ Mark told him. ‘Didn’t you see one in the War?’
‘I helped use Hale rockets one time with Colonel John,’ the Kid replied. ‘Only we didn’t have no fancy doo-hickey to shoot ’em out of.’
Before he and his father were sent to help smuggle goods through the Yankee blockade into Texas, the Kid had ridden with Mosby’s Raiders and had seen conventional fighting. Once Mosby had used Hale rockets and the Kid, interested in all kinds of weapons, took time to learn how they worked; although he had not been impressed by the results they produced.
‘Thing now being, what’re we going to do?’ Wes put in. ‘We can’t stay here, that’s for sure.’
‘Can’t go anyplace either comes to that,’ commented the Kid. ‘Only he can’t use that fancy rocket shooter neither.’
‘Not while it’s light enough for you to see him he can’t,’ Dusty agreed. ‘But once it’s dark, he’ll cut loose.’
‘Even if he doesn’t hit us, the rockets’ll spook the horses,’ Mark went on. ‘That way we’re plumb likely to lose Cousin Phillippa’s wedding presents.’
‘That’s not all we’ll lose,’ Wes answered.
‘Say, I’d forgotten all about those presents,’ Dusty said quietly.
Since their first meeting in Mexico, while Dusty handled the delicate business of persuading General Sheldon to return to the United States, vii Mark had come to know the small Texan very well. Clearly the mention of the wedding presents had sparked off a thought train. Yet Mark could not see how several white sheets, four fancy table lamps and the other items loaded upon the packsaddles might be used to help them out of their predicament.
Then he learned. Slowly, thinking out each stage as he went along, Dusty told his companions what he planned to do. They listened in surprise, for the scheme sounded startling, novel, almost impractical. Yet, taking all things into consideration, it just might work.
‘We’ve only the four lamps, but enough oil for them,’ Mark commented.
‘Wood’s a mite short on this stretch, but I reckon I can rustle up enough for what we need,’ the Kid continued.
‘Can you do your part, Lon?’ asked Dusty.
‘If I can’t, Grandpappy Long Walker sure raised me wrong—as long as I can do it my way.’
Dusty knew just what that meant, but raised no objections. ‘I don’t figure they rate counting as peace officers, so do it your way. Now go pick four melons and the branches. Mark, come unpack the gear we’ll need. Wes, you’d best stay and watch those jaspers across the river.’
Eight – The Departure of Rocket Robbins
Night came down dark and moonless; ideal for the plans made by Dusty to save his party from the State Police. Hidden from the posse across the river, he helped Mark and Wes to put the final touches to their part in the forthcoming escape attempt.
Already the Kid stood prepared to handle his end of the business. While his three companions worked, he stripped off all his white man’s clothing. Retaining only the bowie knife, he wrapped the gunbelt in his clothes and strapped the bundle to the cantle of his white’s saddle. Then he donned the buckskin-fringed moccasins and breechclout of traditional Comanche blue which always accompanied him when he travelled. That and the big knife were all he figured to need for the work ahead.
‘Dark enough for you, Lon?’ asked Dusty, joining the Kid and leaving the other two to attend to fitting out the fourth horse.
‘Just right,’ answered the Kid. ‘I’ll be going.’
‘I don’t know how long you’ll have, but it likely won’t be long.’
‘Then I’d best move off.’
‘Do you still aim to try and take out that rocket launcher?’
‘If it can be done safely. Without it they won’t be so eager to attack. If I can’t, I’ll scatter their horses.’
‘We’ll stay on this side until they come,’ Dusty told him. ‘Unless they cut loose with rockets and force us out. But when we hear something from you, we’ll let her rip all ways.’
‘Yep,’ agreed the Kid. ‘And when you get over, head down river. I’ll whistle up my ole Thunder hoss and catch you along the trail.’
With that he turned and faded into the darkness as silently as a shadow moving along a wall. Every minute delayed added to the danger of the assault starting, so he wasted no more time in talking.
While making sure the structure on the fourth horse’s back was secure and would stay in place during rapid movement, Wes took time out to dart a glance in the Kid’s direction. Then he looked back at Mark as the lean shape faded off into the bushes.
‘Ole Lon looks like some danged Injun,’ the youngster commented with a grin.
‘He is an Indian,’ Mark replied soberly and meant every word he said.
During the later part of the afternoon, as the sun finally sank beyond the western horizon, the Kid had made a careful and unseen study of the posse’s positions. Three Negroes crouched in cover close to the trail and opposite both places where the bluffs curved back to join the water. Two more pairs had been interspersed between the trios and the Kid made note of their positions. Up until dark the rocket launcher had remained where it had been placed by Eli before the Kid’s bullet struck him. It stood in an open space between two large rocks, the panniers containing the rockets hidden behind them. Although the posse, less their lookouts, withdrew beyond the rim during daylight, they started to move back down the slope as night came. Unless the Kid missed his guess, they had halted halfway down and left their horses on the other side. Having assessed the situation, he felt sure that he could carry out his part in the plan.
While fully aware of the need for haste, the Kid did not allow it to lessen his inborn caution. Gliding silently towards the river’s edge, he kept eyes and ears working full time. Ahead of him the water ra
n in a fast, but even flow over a fairly level gravel bottom. Then its surface became disarranged, ripples fanning towards the Kid’s shore. At the same moment he heard a faint sound, a swishing that spelled danger to him.
Instantly the Kid came to a halt and sank behind a bush. His eyes raked the blackness ahead with an almost cat-like ability to pierce it. At first he saw nothing. Then a shape, stooping so as to appear almost deformed, moved slowly through the water. Crouching like a cougar above a deer trail, the Kid waited and watched.
The man who emerged from the water knew less about the business of silent movement than he imagined. That showed from the poor choice he had made in picking the point at which he entered the river. However he came out on the Kid’s side quietly enough. Few white men would have known of his presence until too late.
As Mark had told Wes, the Kid was no white man at that moment. A pure, unadulterated Pehnane Dog Soldier crouched in the blackness and watched the tall, half-naked shape slinking cautiously from the Sulphur River. Steel glinted in the dripping man’s hand, further proof that he did not come on any peaceable or well-disposed mission. Showing what to the Kid seemed an almost suicidal disregard for the niceties of the affair, the man moved up the bank.
Rising in a swift, fluid motion, the Kid brought his bowie knife around in an upwards swing. Sharp as many a barber’s razor, the eleven-and-a-half inch long, two-and-a-half inch wide blade passed under the other man’s chin and sliced deep into the neck below. It was the blow taught by the Pehnane for the purpose of silently killing an enemy, severing the windpipe, vocal cords and jugular veins to prevent any chance of an outcry.
‘A’he!’ hissed the Kid, giving the traditional Comanche coup claim automatically viii as the knife bit home.
Then he closed with the stricken man, ignoring the blood spurting from the wound. Shock, pain and the rapid loss of blood almost caused the Kid’s victim to faint and the dark youngster bore the other to the ground without trouble. Held down in a manner which prevented his dying struggles from being seen or heard across the river, Seth Salter departed this life in the manner he had hoped to use on the Texans.
