‘There’s no sign to follow,’ he said. ‘I don’t know about you fellers, but I ain’t goin’ back without them horses.’
Manning Oaks creased his leathery face in a wry grin.
‘It don’t make sense,’ he said. ‘But I stick.’
Juan Mora shrugged.
‘What are we waiting for?’ he asked softly.
They saddled their horses and rode.
They rode hunched in the saddle, the rain beating down from the right. The horses wanted to turn south and run before the wind. Men and animals were wretched. They were still riding at noon and all of them were of the opinion that their chances of finding the Indians was nil. But at least it stopped raining. They halted to rest the horses and to stretch their own legs, eating without interest the jerky they carried in their pockets. They rested an hour, saddles off, letting the horses roll and graze a little. Then, once more, they saddled and mounted.
They hadn’t covered another half-mile when Juan Mora, in the lead, held up his hand and pointed.
‘Look.’
Clay and Manning drew up on either side of him and stared. At first, Clay could see nothing. Then he saw what could have been drifting smoke. Manning Oaks saw it in the same moment and exclaimed.
Clay said: ‘Maybe it’s our Indians an’ maybe it ain’t.’
‘If I ain’t mistook,’ Manning said, ‘that’s a village.’
They approached a little closer, walking their horses with the greatest caution and, as they came nearer, Clay saw that the smoke indeed must have come from a number of fires.
Clay sat on his horse and thought. He had to admit to himself that he didn’t know what to do next. The dime novel hero would no doubt do something dashing like riding into the village and demanding his horses or dashing in there and driving them off. But this was reality and nothing was, at that moment, further from Clay’s mind. For one thing he didn’t have the remotest idea that his horses were in the village or even that the Indians they had followed belonged to it.
So, said a voice in his head, you have to find out.
How? said another voice with which he identified himself.
Go take a look, said the other voice which he hated.
Echoing his thoughts, Manning said: ‘How the hell do we know if our hosses is down there?’
Clay heard himself say: ‘We go take a look.’
Manning jerked his head around and said: ‘You’re crazy.’
‘Maybe,’ Clay said, ‘but I don’t go back without them horses.’
Juan Mora didn’t like the sound of that much either, ‘Let’s not go off half-cock,’ he said. This bears thinking on.’
Clay said: ‘Mannin’, lend me your glass.’
Manning took his glass from his pocket and handed it to him.
‘I have a feelin’ in my water,’ Manning said, ‘you’re goin’ to do somethin’ real foolish.’
Clay said: ‘You two pull back a mile and hunt cover.’
‘You ain’t goin’ ahead alone,’ Manning said firmly.
‘Mannin’,’ Clay said, ‘you’re the most experienced and you have to get back to take charge of the crew. An’ there’s no sense in three of us losin’ our hair.’
Juan started to speak volubly in Spanish and Clay told him to shut his head. Without another word he went forward. When he looked back, they were still on the same spot staring after him. He impatiently signed to them to get moving. Reluctantly, they turned and rode back east.
The light was pretty poor and that was what Clay relied on. If he couldn’t see Indians too easily, nor could they see him. It wasn’t long before he sighted the teepees. He halted and dismounted. The lodges were in a depression amongst scattered timber on the banks of a creek and were too far from him for him to make out any detail. He lay down on the edge of the depression and put the glass to his eye. Now, he could seeing moving figures, a few women at work outside the lodges. Only one or two men were in evidence, so he had to come to the conclusion that they were either under cover out of the damp, where any sensible man would be, or out on the hunt.
He ranged the glass over the surrounding terrain and cursed the bad light. He was looking for the horse herd and he couldn’t find it. He found dogs and kids, but he couldn’t find the ponies. He elevated the glass a mite and looked over the ground to the west on the far side of the creek. There, on rising ground, he saw the horse herd, a patchwork of colors so vast that he gasped. Its size surprised him and he put the glass back on the village, for at first inspection he had thought it a small community of no more than a dozen teepees. Now, he saw he had been mistaken and further to his right was another collection of hide tents that faded into the uncertain light. The sight appalled him.
He put the glass back on the horses again, striving to see if there were any brands perceptible, but the distance was too great. He would have to get in closer for a good look. He had to know if his horses were there. A small twinge of fear went through him, but his need to know was too strong for it.
He went back to his horse, mounted and rode south, making a wide detour around the village and crossing the stream some miles away from it. He rode clean around into the west, hurrying now because he wanted to get back to Manning and Juan before the light went or he would not find them that night. He discovered that he was tense and excited. The excitement he found he rather liked, which surprised him.
He came out above the giant saucer in the plain amongst some brush to the west of the herd, dismounted, tied his horse and went forward on his belly.
He got the glass to his eye and ran it over the horses. He didn’t have to recognize a brand, for ne saw a horse he knew right off: a smart little bay with a white blaze on its forehead that was Jody’s favorite. He knew then for sure that the Indians who had stolen his horses were down there in the village. He didn’t wait around, but backed up, reached his horse, untied it and mounted. He must have had a fair amount of luck with him, for he circled the village again without being seen. Or without being aware that he was seen.
When he reached Manning and Juan, they both expressed some surprise that he was still alive. They rested in the grass, their eyes turned in the direction of the Indian village, but which was now hidden from their sight by the rim of the saucer. They half expected to see a line of braves come riding over the edge toward them. But dark came upon them before this could happen. Manning and Juan waited apprehensively to hear Clay’s intentions.
Clay found that the excitement was still riding him. He knew that he was about to attempt the impossible, but somehow that didn’t throw a scare into him. He just didn’t consider the possibility that he might fail. They were his horses and he had every right to them.
Finally, Manning could not stomach his lack of communication longer and said: ‘Well, what do we do?’
Clay said: ‘We get our horses back.’
‘Just like that,’ said Manning.
‘We got a real smart hombre here,’ Juan said coldly. ‘He ain’t afraid of two-three hundred Indians. No, sir.’
‘It don’t take more’n three good men to steal a horse herd in the dark,’ Clay said. ‘An’ you know it.’
‘We got three good men?’ Juan. ‘You got some other fellers stashed away someplace.’
Clay said: ‘Juanito, you get lippy with me an’ I’ll have a small portion of your hide.’
Manning said gently and, he hoped, persuasively: ‘Boy, just think a mite. There’s a hull lotta Indians down yonder. We don’t want to tangle with ‘em. A man could lose his hair doin’ a fool thing like that.’
‘I thought of that,’ Clay said. ‘All you two have to worry about is two-three boys looking out for the herd. Leave the village to me.’
Juan snorted.
‘Leave the village to him he says.’
‘Juan, I’m warnin’ you ...’
‘Clay,’ Manning said soberly, ‘I hate to pull age and experience on you, but−’
‘You ain’t pullin’ nothin’ on me so s
ave your breath,’ Clay said. ‘You can’t give me more’n two years. I can ride anythin’ you can ride and whip anythin’ you can whip.’
‘You really mean to do this?’
‘You ever tell how my Uncle Mart stole them horses from the Kiowas?’
‘That was your Uncle Mart.’
‘It runs in the family. Look, you don’t have to do nothin’ but git across the creek and spook those horses south. Even two dumb heads like you and this Mex here can do that without me holdin’ your hands. It’s full dark. You got guns.’
Juan said: ‘And you attack the village. Real smart. We take you back dead, your daddy’s going to be real pleased with us.’
‘Oh, for Chrissake,’ Clay said. ‘If you ain’t goin’ to help me, I’ll make a try for the herd on my lonesome.’
Manning snarled: ‘Who said we wasn’t goin’ to help you?’
Juan snapped: ‘You think we’re yellow cowards or somethin’?’
Clay got to his feet.
‘Tighten cinches and let’s get goin’.’
A few moments later, they were in the saddle.
Clay said: ‘It’ll take you twice as long to get into position. So I wait till I hear you shootin’. Try not to kill nobody. We don’t aim to start a killin’ war. I’ll keep ‘em busy this side so they don’t come after you. Circle north and come in from the west. Drive the horses along the west side of the creek. That way I can find you.’
Manning said: ‘Luck, Clay.’
‘Con Dios,’ added Juan fervently.
Clay reckoned he would need both.
The two of them turned north and in a moment were lost in the darkness. Clay, left alone, suddenly felt the immense solitude. As soon as the sound of their horses died away, his whole outlook changed and he saw that what he was attempting really was impossible and he was the biggest damned fool who had ever been born.
But he was stuck with it. He had to go ahead. Just the same he was at last clearly aware that he was risking two other men’s lives with his foolishness. It was a sobering thought.
He stayed where he was for a while. All he could do was pray for rain so that their retreating tracks would be washed out. After he thought enough time had passed, he walked his horse forward to the edge of the saucer. Now he could see small lights which were the fires. He wondered what sort of a watch was kept by the Indians. He could only hope that it was a poor one. As he sat his stationary horse, the sound of voices drifted to him faintly on the night air. He heard a dog howling. He waited a while longer then walked his horse forward until he reached the edge of the creek. Now he was within hailing distance of the village. He expected a challenge at any moment, but it didn’t come. He lifted his belt-gun from leather and waited.
He seemed to wait a long time.
He had begun to think that Manning and Juan had somehow been able to reach their objective when he heard the distant pop of a gun.
He started in the saddle, listening, expecting all hell to break loose, but once again the silence took over.
Then he heard the voices on the other side of the creek. He thought he could see dark forms coming out of the lodges. He heard the shrill sound of a man’s voice raised. Then there came three shots from the direction of the horse herd, and, even at that distance, he couldn’t mistake a large number of horses taking off.
It was time he got into action.
For a moment, he demurred to open fire and attract to himself the firepower of the village. Suddenly he knew only too clearly what he had gotten himself into. He wouldn’t get more than a half-dozen shots off and the Indians would come storming through the waters of the creek toward him. After all this would turn into a killing game.
Just the same, he lined his belt-gun up with the tops of the teepees and opened fire. A couple of shots and he jumped the horse forward along the creek bank. He fired again and again. He could almost feel the attention of the people in the village turning from the departing horse herd to himself.
When the gun was empty, he holstered it and heaved, the Henry his father had given him from under his leg. His horse was jittery from the shooting and he was having trouble with it. It tried to turn and run for the lip of the saucer, but he held it where it was by main force.
He heard shouting and screams from the village.
He could feel the terror of the women and children, terror that he himself had instilled.
He fired a couple of shots with the rifle, then turned and rode south along the creek shooting.
There came a couple of shots from the other side of the creek and lead hummed through the air near him. At once he knew that he was at a disadvantage. He wasn’t trying to hit anybody, but, by hookie, those Indians were trying to hit him.
His horse was fighting him again now. The animal took his whole attention. He cursed.
There was somebody in the water of the creek. A man yelling. He was barely perceptible in the dark, nothing more than an uncertain shape against the dull gleam of the water. Now there came the beat of hoofs and at least two horsemen rode their mounts out of the village and jumped them into the stream. Panic touched Clay. So the Indians weren’t horseless entirely. If there were mounted men, he must lead them away from Manning and Juan. Whatever happened, the Indians must not have the opportunity of regaining their herd.
For a moment, his horse consented to stand.
Clay snapped off a shot at the riders. It would have been a comfort now if he had made a hit and dumped one of them into the waters of the creek.
He turned the horse north and rammed home the spurs. The animal jumped and hit running. Clay was horribly aware that he had not created enough diversion to allow the other two to get clean away.
The man who had jumped into the creek was ahead of him now, rising dripping from the water, yelling.
Clay was confused. The yelling sounded like that of a woman. He must be mistaken. An Indian woman wouldn’t charge forward ahead of the men.
He passed the riders as they struggled through the water. One of them fired at him and missed. But it was a close miss and Clay instinctively ducked his head.
The figure ahead of him was waving its arms and yelling. He swerved to avoid it, his horse reared and swerved off to one side so suddenly that he was nearly unseated.
‘I’m a white woman! ‘
The words were so startling, so improbable that he froze in the saddle, all danger momentarily forgotten.
He held his horse in with an iron hand.
He stared at the figure as it almost hurled itself at him.
The face was a pale orb beneath him.
‘I’m a white woman!’ came again.
Then total awareness of the situation returned so violently that once again he was rushed headlong into panic and the panic was so great that it took him in one monstrous sweep beyond fear. The will to survive took over and allowed no room for anything else.
He turned in the saddle.
One of the riders was heaving up the bank from the creek. An easy shot for the Henry, even in this impossible light. Clay jammed the butt of the rifle into his shoulder and aimed low. When he pressed the trigger the dark bulk that was man and horse abruptly hurled itself sideways, tumbled untidily down the bank of the creek and fell into the water with a splash.
The other man was coming on.
Clay’s horse was jittering again.
Clay fired a quick shot without aiming and the rider swerved wildly away into the night.
He became aware that he was being shot at from the village now. He could see the muzzle-flashes stabbing the darkness. He wondered if he showed against the sky. He thought there were more men starting to cross the creek.
He shoved the Henry away in the boot and leaned from the saddle.
‘Give me your hand,’ he yelled.
He felt a small hand in his at once. The woman jumped nimbly and he swung her onto the rump of the rose. He hit with the spurs again and the animal was away. It wanted to run and he didn’t want to sto
p it. He was aware of lead singing around him and the woman’s arms were tight around his waist.
A double load, he thought. If they don’t catch me with a double load, they damn well should.
The ground rose under them and the horse strained up it, then swooped down again. They were running north close at the side of the creek. Pretty soon he could see that they were past the camp. The shooting had stopped.
He turned the horse into the creek and prayed it wasn’t too deep at this spot. His prayer was answered. The water came no higher than the horse’s belly. They came dripping out on the other side and headed on west. They hadn’t covered a half-mile when the land started to rise again and he reckoned they had reached the far side of the saucer. That meant he should turn south and follow the horse herd. He swung left and eased the pace a little. He had no wish to kill the animal that stood between himself and the Indians.
The Indian camp was now to his left and he could see the lights of its fires and a few conical shapes that were the lodges. He went on past about a mile and stopped.
The woman started to say something, but he stopped her with: ‘Be still. Listen.’
They listened.
They could hear plenty of noise coming from the village, but little else. If the pursuit was there behind him, he couldn’t hear it.
He got the horse on the move again and kept it at a steady trot. He could see almost nothing so it was up to the horse that they didn’t ride into anything in the dark. He hated riding in the dark, but he hated getting caught by Indians whose horses he had stolen, worse.
‘I was only trying to thank you,’ the woman said.
The sound startled him, for he had forgotten her for a moment, so engrossed was he with the Indians that might be behind.
It was a pretty nice voice. Young. But you never could tell. Anybody could have a nice voice.
‘We ain’t outa the wood yet,’ he said.
‘But we will be,’ she said, ‘we’ll get away.’
She willed herself to get away. He wondered how long she had been with the Indians. He had heard all kinds of stories of what happened to white women who got caught by Indians. He wondered if they ... he tried to put the thought from his mind. She sounded like a decent woman and he had the Texan’s respect for one of that kind.
Hard Texas Trail Page 2
