Double Mountain Crossing

by Chris Scott Wilson

  The Henry jumped in his hands and the butt plate slammed into his shoulder like a metal fist. Without looking to see if he had hit, he worked the action as he swung, then squeezed off the next shot. Time after time he fired, dextrously working the rifle mechanism. Spent brass casings jumped into the air and fell twisting in the grass. All the hours of experience racked up along the string of trail towns paid dividends. In his capable hands the Henry was second to none.

  On the slopes of the greening grass below him, ponies were struggling, pulled down by wounded riders or shot themselves. Wild screaming mingled with the harsh cries of their masters. Someone was firing back. A bullet dug a furrow to his left, throwing up dirt. He cursorily brushed his face, worried about his eyes, then fired again. Unsure now, shooting through a pall of his own gun smoke, he began placing shots indiscriminately across the centre of the slope, and could not see if he gained any hits among the milling ponies and grounded riders.

  The edge was gone now. They knew as well as he did, it was him up there and it was now up to them to come up and have at it.

  The hammer clicked on an empty breech. Alison rolled quickly off the skyline and grabbed a handful of shells from the box. One after another he fed them into the magazine under the hot barrel. Loaded and ready, he rolled again to a fresh spot on the rim and came up on his elbows.

  Gun smoke smeared on the breeze.

  The ponies were scattered and gone, except the black the chief had ridden. It was laid on its side in the hollow. Nearby was the still body of an Indian, and he could see the feathers of the war bonnet trapped underneath. To the right another Kiowa thrashed in agony, arms uselessly flailing the bloodstained grass. A flicker caught his eyes and he focused on a figure that came up running from the grass on his left flank. A quick sweep with the Henry and he pulled the trigger. The Indian leapt upright then fell backwards to lay motionless.

  Three down. Where the hell were the other two?

  Calm down. They’re out there and they can’t get to you without you seeing them first. Three, not bad, and you ain’t got a scratch yet. He rubbed the salt sweat from his forehead and scanned the grass again. Not a sign. Below, the writhing body had ceased its frantic signals. Three dead ones and a dead pony. Nothing else at all.

  They could not have vanished. They must be out there. Likely creeping up, foxy Indian style. No chance. He would still get them before they made it to the rim. A rifle boomed in the dip and Alison ducked sharply, but not before his open mouth gathered a helping of dirt thrown into it. That was close. He spat the soil out and swore. The rifle sounded like a saddle carbine, its tone higher than a Sharps or a Remington, but different again to a Winchester. Single shot. Good. Time wasted between reloads. The more the merrier, just no repeating rifles…

  He risked another glance. Nothing. Stalemate.

  How could two Indians disappear into grass only a handspan high? He shrugged. Indians were capable of almost everything. Wise was the man who did not underestimate them.

  His rifleman’s eyes raked the gently rippling grass. Nothing. Not a damned thing. But they were there, there was no other place for them to be. And as long as he was unable to see them they had the edge. But if he kept his head down they would have to come to him, and at that moment when they chose to attack the ridge the edge would be back with him. The only way up was by ascending the slopes, and from where he lay he could see them all.

  The way he figured it, there was no way they could take him.

  ***

  Soldier lay flat on his stomach, face buried in the warm earth. All was silent but for the faint buzzing of insects and the whispering breeze through the grass, mingling with fading echoes of gunfire still trapped in his mind. Motionless, knowing instinctively if he moved he was dead, and he was suddenly grateful for the long hours of training for just such a situation as this. Patience was of prime importance. To wait was to sustain life. He could imagine the cold eyes of the white man on the rim above. The fear any movement of his head would bring a bullet singing into his back almost consumed him. His shoulder hurt where he had been thrown from the roan mustang and his hands were empty of the prized Winchester. He opened and closed his fingers, inching them about on the grass at his sides but the rifle was not there.

  He was scared.

  “To your right, Little Soldier,” a voice whispered from the grass behind him. He almost jumped but caught his reaction swiftly and relaxed as he had been taught. It was Crowfoot. For a while after he had come to, it had occurred to him perhaps he was the only one left. Crowfoot! It brought a wave of pleasure to hear his voice.

  “What happened to…?”

  “Quiet!” the voice whispered tersely. “Reach for your rifle.”

  He did as he was told. He eased his right arm up, fingertips brushing the grass stalks. Slowly, he bent his elbow, gaining another foot to his reach and when his hand still remained empty he straightened his arm out to his full stretch.

  It was there.

  His fingertips probed the sun warmed steel and closed gratefully round it. Carefully, he pulled the Winchester gradually towards him. Inch by inch he turned his head until he was staring at the weapon. It was undamaged. His spirits soared. With the repeating rifle in his hands he was again a worthy opponent of the fast shooting fat-taker. As he smiled his relief Crowfoot’s voice broke into his thoughts.

  “Our leader has ridden south.”

  “Yes,” Soldier replied quietly, remembering the first shot to split the air. There had been a surprised cry beside him and he had turned to see Thunderhawk’s arms spread wide, a look of astonishment across his weathered features before he tumbled backwards over the rump of the galloping pony, blood spurting from his chest to cloud the air with a pink mist. Soldier had dropped from his own saddle and sprinted back but the chief’s sightless eyes had merely stared up at the sky. As he stood over the corpse, the black pony had wheeled with yellow teeth gnashing to protect his fallen master.

  “Coyote?” he asked hopefully.

  “All of them ridden south,” came the hushed reply. “Only you and I left.” There was silence for a moment before the voice came again, this time harder. “We shall kill him together, you and I. You take the right flank and I will take the centre line.”

  The two Kiowas began their stalk. Crowfoot crawled directly up the slope which would bring him slightly left of the white man’s last known position. Soldier took the right flank. They would catch him in a crossfire. Crowfoot had carefully noted the white man’s deadly prowess with the repeating rifle and was under no illusion his task would be easy. His own Springfield was an old single shot model that took long seconds to reload. If he missed with his first shot, then…But it had to be done. When the fat-taker had opened fire, Crowfoot had been first to see the trick, and also that it had worked admirably. The ruse of mutilating Littleman’s body and the blind anger that followed. Like inexperienced boys they had succumbed to it.

  Now they had paid for their impetuosity. His heart was heaviest for Thunderhawk. He loved him like a brother and in him had recognised the germination of a special kind of seed. One that could have grown and blossomed to bear the fruit of greatness. Perhaps even as great as Mamanti or Satank. Now they would never know. He was gone, wiped from the land like dust by the hand of the wind. Crowfoot knew he could grieve until the sun died or the rocks melted but nothing would bring back Thunderhawk to lead his people.

  Across the slope, Soldier inched his way painstakingly upwards, fear a writhing serpent in his stomach even with the strength of the Winchester to comfort him. The task of vengeance had fallen on his shoulders and he knew that he must do his best. Although Crowfoot accompanied him, he knew he alone bore the brunt of the burden, if only to fulfil the faith shown in him. Thunderhawk had given him his name and also the rifle. He had to do it, or he could never truly bear the name of Soldier. Dead or not, he would have to earn his name for his chief.

  Slowly, he crawled across the slope, moving upwards. Every few momen
ts he paused and glanced to the rim but he could not see the white man. And no sign of Crowfoot. The older brave had removed his telltale feathers from the crown of his hair for the stalk, but Soldier knew if it had been him on the rim, he would have seen him. The fat-taker was like all his kind. He looked without seeing. For all his skill with a rifle, the color of his skin would be his downfall.

  Ahead was a dip in the grass and as Soldier slid gratefully into it he recognised it for what it was. It was a runoff that angled obliquely down the slope. At this time of year it was bone dry and would remain so unless there was a rainstorm. If he followed the trough he would emerge at the rim some thirty or forty feet from the white man. That was providing he had not altered his shooting position. It would be perfect. With Crowfoot on the front slope and himself at the crest they would have the fat-taker caught neatly between them.

  He began to slither up the trough, the Winchester cradled across the insides of his elbows so the barrel would not get clogged. The dip was about ten inches deep, and with the additional height of the grass he had enough cover, enabling him to increase the rate of his ascent. As he crawled he wondered how much progress Crowfoot had made. There had been no gunfire to show either of them had been spotted, but if they were it would likely be Crowfoot as he was in the centre, directly below the white man’s nose. Soldier was determined to reach the crest first so he could draw the fat-taker’s fire.

  Only thirty feet to go. As he snaked through the dust he found his heart was hammering and his breathing ragged with excitement. To reach that rim and pick off the white man was the focal point of his concentration. When it was done he would have accomplished his task. Denied of the greying scalp of the white man who owned the big killing gun, the hair of the sharpshooter would more than make amends. It would mean another repeating rifle too, but Crowfoot would take that to replace his ageing Springfield. Also the two horses, or at least a horse and a mule if the tracks read true. And the yellow iron, but as far as he knew it was worthless and he had found it puzzling when Thunderhawk had ordered Coyote to bury the sacks he found near the horse that had died from a snakebite.

  Ten feet. He was almost there.

  Teeth clenched in determination, he continued climbing until at last, the freshening breeze blew into his face and he broached the rim.

  CHAPTER 13

  There are times when a man possesses a sixth sense, especially men in whose lives violence plays a major part. Men who live such lives are not often good with words, preferring to rely on their actions to speak for them, so they cannot tell you how they know, or why they know, but they know. Some say it is Lady Luck showing her hand for a brief second to a favored one, or perhaps it is something physical like a minute change in the wind that coaxes some response deep in the mind, or even just experience of expecting the unexpected. Whatever the explanation, it is enough it is there when it is sorely needed. But it was none of these things that alerted Shuck Alison.

  The waiting made him nervous. Two hours, the sun sticking his shirt to his back like a waterlogged sail and the bugs feeding off his wet flesh did not make life any easier. He had removed his hat to lessen the target he made when he scanned the horizon, and now his straggly hair was lank with grease and sweat that furrowed through the dirt on his forehead into his eyes. His hands never seemed still. Nervously, he checked the Henry time and time again, or wiped his slippery hands on his pants, or scratched at the stubble of black beard that speckled his cheeks, or slapped at the troublesome insects that pestered him without respite. As the minutes dragged slowly by, the burst of energy he had experienced during the opening shots of the gunfight sapped away, drained by the withering heat of the sun and the need to be constantly on his guard.

  For a few minutes during the interminable wait he had wondered whether the remaining Kiowas had scattered with the ponies. No. He knew of no Indians who would abandon their dead chief to be devoured by the carrion eaters. No, they must be out there, bellies to the ground and closing in. How they could disappear into the ocean of grass amazed him, but it must be so. He determined on no account to forget they were out there. That was exactly what they wanted, and if he relaxed for a moment they would be on him. It would be his turn to die, and he had no desire to lose the top of his head.

  Maybe they were outflanking him. That was just the sort of tactic they would use. He rolled over onto his back and examined the full perimeter of the rim. Nothing. Down in the hollow the black was grazing peacefully, the bridle bit rattling in his mouth as he ate in a slow circle round the picket post. Alison smiled ruefully. At least the horse was taking advantage of the stalemate to fill his belly.

  He rolled back onto his stomach and made a quick survey of the slope where the dead Indians lay. Nothing moved but the endless whispering grass. He swore softly. He just wished they would get on with it and get it over. His stomach was hollow and his mouth was parched. If he’d known it would take this long he would have brought the canteen up to the rim instead of leaving it on the black’s saddle. He passed his leathery tongue over cracked lips. If they did not come soon he would have to go down for it. If his body dried out his brain would become sluggish. And that was just what they wanted.

  He looked down at the horse again to calculate how long it would take for him to run down, grab the canteen and hotfoot it back up. He measured the distance with a practised eye. It wouldn’t take long, but then a second could make all the difference.

  Suddenly the black’s ears twitched and its head came up, mouth still full of unchewed grass. Its big dark eyes swung to the rim.

  Alison frowned, then a flicker of movement triggered his reflexes and he flung himself aside, bringing up the Henry to bear.

  A rifle cracked and dust danced where his chest had been the moment before. The Henry was up and lining. He squinted and the kneeling figure sprang into focus. The Kiowa boy. It was as though time had lost its rhythm. He could plainly see the boy with the rifle to his shoulder. The whites of his eyes stood out vividly against the shining copper of his unlined face and the black braids that brushed his shoulders, teased by the breeze. Gun smoke smeared from the Winchester’s hot barrel, and ever so slowly it seemed the young fingers manipulated the loading mechanism. The hand moved down and the spent shell was ejected, twisting in the air. As it rose, a flash of sunlight sparked from it, then it began to tumble earthward. Alison’s attentions switched to the hand moving back up, the lever pushing a fresh bullet into the breech and cocking the hammer. The boy’s expression altered slowly as he concentrated on his aim. Wide clear eyes were narrowed as his finger tightened on the trigger.

  It was all so slow. Alison’s mind and battle hardened reflexes were working overtime to build an advantage. A full eighth of a second before the Winchester spoke, Alison’s Henry both opened and closed the conversation.

  With the bark of the rifle echoing in his ears, Alison worked the lever. The boy was dead, or would be very soon. His instinct told him it had been a good shot. But he watched.

  The boy gasped and his eyes opened so wide Alison thought the eyeballs would fall out and roll down his cheeks. With the force of the bullet’s impact, the right arm was thrown out from the body, still clutching the rifle, and he came up off the ground straddle legged, knees buckling. A hole seemed to appear as if by magic in the smooth skin of his stomach and blood gushed in a crimson spurt from his back as he twisted in the air and sprawled face down.

  The relief at beating the boy to the crucial shot faded as Alison’s mind began to jump to and fro. It was a natural; one from the front, one from behind. The fault had been in the timing. The boy had been too hasty; his kinsman had not yet made an appearance.

  He turned fast and came up on one knee. Eyes raked the skyline. In avoiding the boy’s first shot he had slipped seven or eight feet down the grassy slope and now all he could see was the inside of the rim. If he crawled back up he would be dead centre in the other Indian’s sights when he came over the top. As the boy had come up on the left,
then the chances were the other one would top out on the right. If he reached the rim before the Kiowa he might have a chance. He was already moving, the Henry ready as he stalked like a cat.

  The Kiowa came from nowhere. One moment there was only the grass and the next there was a full grown Indian brave, straight and tall. Hard, wiry, capable. Possibly a year or two older than himself. Lined and painted face. Long jet black braids, almost to the waist. Broad and heavily muscled chest, tendons rippling in the wide shoulders. Buckskin leggings, fringed with scalps.

  No inexperienced boy this one.

  The Kiowa burst into a blur of action. He spanned the distance between them before Alison could flicker an eyelash, much less bring the Henry to bear. Breath exploded from his lungs as though he had been struck with a hammer, then both men were rolling down the slope. The stink of the Indian was in Alison’s nostrils as he suffered the embrace of sinewy arms. As they fell, he brought up a knee sharply and the grip relaxed, allowing his heaving chest to suck in air. He began to pummel anything that came within striking distance of his fists. Blows rained on his body, his chest echoing hollowly, but he was numb, giving as good as he received. In a tumbleweed of flailing arms and kicking legs they rolled on downwards. Fists crashed into bruised faces and aching chests time and time again.