by Ralph Cotton
The relay horses were no longer strung together by rope. The unwitting combatants charged forward into the melee, eyes wide, bulged with terror, their whinnying turned to screams for mercy. On the outer edge of the charge, the barb loped along like some ridiculous element of a comedia carnaval caught up in someone else’s nightmare. Its supply pack had gone askew, yet it clung to its side. Tins of food and wrapped packages of jerked meat worked loose from the supplies and rose one and two items at a time and flew back and bounced along the sand in the horse’s wake.
“Don’t stop! Ride through them!” Madson shouted above the din of screaming horses and raging gunfire. In another relentless instant, the two forces clashed head-on. Bullet, arrow and club in force, both sides appeared to rise and spill back each onto itself like powerful waves at sea.
At close quarters the battle raged, both sides flying down from their horses’ backs like wild creatures born in tree boughs and hurled to earth for man’s decimation. Burke and the Montana Kid fought back-to-back like ancient gladiators given a promise of freedom.
Both gunmen and Apache alike shot and stabbed and choked, poked and bludgeoned. Blood flew, bones snapped. Scalps ripped away; limbs plopped to the ground. Horses reared and trampled, kicked and bit with bared teeth like wild dogs and whinnied long and loud, protesting at having been brought in on this against their natural will.
After seconds—seconds that weighed in as hours—the gunmen felt the turn of the fight to their favor. Outnumbered but better armed, they fought with an outlaw’s fortune at stake in the bags of gold behind their saddles.
The Apache, fighting with bitter vengeance for land and lives lost, and for home and hearth—meager though it be—felt the wrath and force of ruthless desperate men driven by gold and fearless in their defense of it.
Clyde Burke grabbed a warrior out of the air by his throat as the man sailed in at him. Yelling wide-eyed, the Indian swung a bloody pistol, barely missing Burke’s head. His yell turned to a gag as Burke jammed a smoking-hot gun barrel deep into his throat and pulled the trigger. Burke flung the broken Indian aside and wiped the blood and bone matter off on his blood-slathered shirtsleeve.
Behind Burke, facing the opposite direction, Montana fired a blocky German pistol he’d snatched up from a dead warrior, and began firing it as he swung a broken stockless French rifle in his other hand. Manning Wilbert ran at Montana, screaming, blinded by blood, his scalp gone and a bloody boot knife slashing back and forth in his hand. His left forearm was missing, sliced off cleanly by the blade of a broken federale sword a warrior swung fiercely.
Without hesitation, Montana shot him in the forehead and turned away in time to shoot a charging Indian as a bullet from the Indian’s pistol grazed his forehead and caused him to stagger in place.
“We’re all dead!” he shouted again, the words having become almost a mantra he’d adopted early on.
“All you do is whine, Kid!” Burke shouted behind him.
They fought on.
Chapter 22
All the while the sound of the battle raged below, Sam had followed the upper trails, one to another, keeping watch on the rising dust and gun smoke. By the time the gunfire and whinnying of horses had started to diminish, he sat his horse on a cliff that offered a partial view of the fighting. Scanning down with his battered telescope, he saw man and horse locked in a death waltz obscured in a swirl of fine sand, burnt sulfur, potassium and charcoal.
All the elements of hell . . . , Sam told himself.
As he looked down to his left, he saw the barb break away from a circling field of riderless horses, a couple with empty leather saddles and the loaded canvas bags bouncing heavily at their flanks. Others wore only wooden saddle frames, padded by blankets and skins. He saw several relay horses circling with the frightened herd. The barb ran back in the direction of the distant water hole as if that might be the last peaceful place of recent memory.
In a moment, as the fighting waned some more and a couple more horses broke away from the frightened circle and galloped away along the desert edge, Sam lowered the lens and stared down into the drifting dust with his naked eye. He had estimated over a dozen Apache by the volume of hoofprints he’d studied. Now as the gunfire fell away, he began to see the warriors fleeing sporadic shots, having had enough, if not to sate their blood vengeance, at least to have held it in check for the time being.
Watching the circling horses, he saw the herd thin down as more Apache grabbed their animals from within it and raced away. As the Indians fled, he noted the two horses carrying the bags behind their saddles had been cut out of the herd. In another moment, he saw Madson’s men galloping after the fleeing Apache. But they appeared to lose interest after a hundred yards and slowed and circled and fired rifle shots that appeared to be more of a warning now as the last rifle and pistol shots fell silent below.
Sam raised his telescope again and studied the gunmen as they rode into sight from around tall rock edges and cliffs jutting out of the hillside beneath him. He saw Burke and Montana. The two rode along blood-covered yet appearing otherwise unharmed. In front of them, he saw Madson and Jon Ho and thought to himself what a perfect time it would be, to be there and kill the two of them and put an end to Madson’s lawless reign. But he reminded himself to be patient.
The time was coming. . . .
He backed the dun, turned it off the cliff onto the trail and rode down for the next half hour until he left the hills and rode onto the sand at the edge of the desert floor.
He rode to the battle site, the dust and burnt powder still settling around him. Two of Madson’s gunmen lay dead on the ground. One of the dead he recognized as Clarence Rhodes; the other was Manning Wilbert, who’d been there the day he met Madson atop the cantina roof in Shadow River. Manning’s scalp was missing, as was his left forearm and a large portion of his skull both front and rear.
Hearing a muffled groan, Sam turned from the two dead gunmen with his Colt coming up cocked and pointed toward the sound.
Ten feet away, the warrior he’d given water to over a month ago lay staring at him, blood staining his clenched teeth and running down from the corner of his lips. Sam saw a look of recognition stir in the young warrior’s dark eyes. He lay propped against another dead Indian, clutching his chest with both hands inside an open federale tunic. Sam looked all around, then stepped over to him and looked down.
The warrior took one bloody hand from under the tunic and reached it up to Sam. He murmured something in Apache, something barely audible. Sam crouched a little.
“Hablo español?” he asked the dying warrior.
The dark eyes only bored into his. The bloody hand remained upreached. Sam leaned closer. He started to try what few words he knew in Apache. But before he could say a thing, the bloody hand sprang to life suddenly, grabbed his shirt and jerked him down closer. Sam reacted quickly, seeing the warrior’s other hand come out of a bloody tunic and holding a double-edge knife. In spite of his sharp reflexes, Sam felt the knife reach up and slice along his ribs before he pulled away and kicked the knife from the warrior’s hand.
He felt the burn of the steel as the warrior fell back to the rocky ground and stared up at him. The knife lay a few feet away. Sam planted a boot on the Indian’s bloody chest and examined the stab wound he’d just taken from him. He’d been cut deep, but luckily he’d missed the stabbing point of the blade. He saw blood flowing freely down his side. He looked back at the Indian’s face and recognized something akin to satisfaction in the dark, weakening eyes.
Being a double edge, the knife had sliced twofold, diagonally along the inside of Sam’s forearm and straight along his side at rib level.
What a time to get cut. . . .
Sam squeezed his sliced arm against his bleeding ribs for the moment and leveled the cocked Colt at the young warrior’s head.
“If that’s all you’ve got, you can go now
,” he said in a lowered tone.
The warrior stared at him with almost a faint smile on his face.
Sam started to pull the trigger, but he caught himself and stopped. He gazed out across the desert floor in the direction of Agua Fría and saw dust starting to rise against the afternoon sky.
“You’ve cut me good,” he said. With his big Mexican boot clamped down on the man’s chest, he uncocked his Colt and let it hang in his hand. With his bleeding arm, he reached out long enough to pick up the double-edge knife and stand up with it in hand.
The Indian stared at him, unafraid, a questioning look on his dying face.
“Huh-uh,” said Sam. “You’ll have to die on your own.” He threw the knife away and took his foot off the man’s bloody chest. Backing away, he reached up under his sombrero and pulled down the black cloth he wore over his head. He wadded it and placed it along the wound on his ribs, then pressed his forearm in against it. He took the bandana from around his neck and did the same thing, feeling a need for more than the one bandage to stay the flow of blood.
“I didn’t see that one coming,” he said quietly. He looked at the drawn face again and saw dead glazed-over eyes staring past him at the distant hills. Sam let out a breath and backed away toward the dun. “I wish you’d died ten minutes sooner,” he said without malice, squeezing his forearm against his bleeding side.
He stepped atop the dun and rode back up onto the hill trails, this time staying lower, needing to make better time. He needed to get to the water, put himself ahead of Madson and his men. He kept his forearm pressed tight to his side and let the dun pick its path and its pace back toward the water hole.
• • •
Bell Madson looked down at the fresh tracks coming down toward him, both shod and unshod, as he led the riders along the edge of the sand flats. In the long shadows of evening, they’d turned upward onto the slope leading to the water hole. They had lost two men in the sudden skirmish, but they had killed over half the Apache. Montana had suffered a bullet graze along the side of his head. He’d wrapped a bandana around it.
Burke was nicked and cut all over; he bore a perfect bite imprint on the side of his neck. He and Montana led six of the relay horses they’d recaptured. The white-speckled barb’s supply had been straightened on its back.
Jaxton Brooks had lost a hand just above his wrist. He wobbled in his saddle from the loss of blood he’d suffered before Atzen Allison had covered and bound the stump of his arm with a shirt he’d taken from Brooks’ saddlebags.
“I—I hope we killed . . . that sword-swinging son of a bitch . . . who did this,” he said in a rasping voice, Allison leading his horse along by its reins.
“Oh yeah,” Allison reassured him. “If he ain’t dead, he owes me the three bullets I put in his belly.”
“Obliged,” Brooks replied weakly, swaying in his saddle. “We . . . got all our . . . horses, then?”
“Pretty much,” said Allison. “Why don’t you shut now and rest?”
Brooks held up the bloody shirt-covered stump.
“Funny,” he said dreamily. “I can’t tell it’s gone . . . feels like it’s here . . . I just can’t see it.”
“Yeah, real funny,” Allison said, giving him a look. “Shut up and rest, damn it.”
“I’ll have to learn . . . to shoot all over again—”
“All right, that’s it,” Allison said. “Here, you’re on your own.” He pitched the maimed gunman the reins to his horses. He booted his horse forward away from Brooks. “He won’t shut up,” he said with a shrug to anyone watching.
As the weary riders rode up through the tall rock lining the outer perimeter of the water hole, Madson reined up fast. His hand slapped in reflex around his holstered gun butt. He sat startled for a second at the sight of Sam sitting on the ground by the water’s edge. When he relaxed, he turned from startled to surprised. As the gunmen moved up around him on either side, he let out a tight breath, staring at Sam.
“All right, Jones, here’s the deal,” Madson said. “You’ve got five seconds to give me one good reason why I shouldn’t blow your head off where you’re sitting.” As he spoke, he started to pull the gun from its holster, but seeing Sam raise the Winchester from across his lap already cocked and ready, Madson left his Colt holstered.
“I don’t need five seconds,” Sam said calmly. He jiggled the Winchester a little. “Here’s my one good reason.”
He almost hoped the gang leader would go for his Colt. He could end it right here—Madson first, then Jon Ho, while they both sat side by side. He might not get a better chance than this, he told himself. But he thought about his sliced arm and wounded side. Would it slow him down, cause him to lose a precious half second levering a fresh round up for Jon Ho while Madson fell backward from his saddle?
Too risky. . . . He wanted them both dead. He didn’t want to give up his life to only kill one of them, have the other one ride away and leave him facedown in the dirt.
“Bell, look, he’s bleeding,” Burke said on the other side of Madson. “What do you suppose happened?” he asked Madson to bring his attention away from killing.
Madson, needing a reason to back away from a fight without looking bad to his men, let his hand drift away from his Colt.
“Yeah, Jones, what happened?” Madson asked Sam.
“What do you think happened?” Sam said in a voice balancing on a thin edge of anger. “I got hit in the night by Apache. They took all the horses. You had me waiting at Rocky Mesa. . . . Turns out that’s one of their favorite sites.”
Madson cocked his head a little to one side.
“You ever heard that, Jon Ho?” he asked the Mexican-Chinese gunman.
Jon Ho didn’t reply; he only shook his head, staring hard at Sam.
Madson looked back and forth and all around the hillside above the water hole.
“All right, what are you doing here?” he asked Sam.
“I followed them here,” Sam said. “I stuck to the high trails, being only one of me. I knew I couldn’t take the horses back. I figured you’d be coming, I’d get ahead of them and warn you before they come riding up on you.” He paused and let his Winchester lie back across his lap. “I heard the gun battle. I knew I wouldn’t get there in time. I sat down here. I been here ever since.”
Madson sat mulling his story over in his mind. Sam half turned and dipped his bloody bandana into the water, wrung it and pressed it back to his forearm.
“An Apache do that to you?” Madson asked, his voice calmer.
Sam just looked at him.
“Yeah, I suppose so,” Madson answered himself. He gestured at Jon Ho. “Go check out his wounds.”
Jon Ho started to step down.
“You send him over, you’ll come scrape him up,” Sam said with iron in his voice. His hand went back to his Winchester.
Undaunted, Jon Ho started to step down anyway. But Madson reached a hand over onto Jon Ho’s forearm, stopping him.
“Montana, you go check him,” Madson said.
Montana stepped down, walked over cautiously and stopped a few feet from Sam.
“You see what I got to do, Jones,” he said with his hands spread in a show of peace.
“Yeah, I see,” Sam said. He turned a little toward Montana and raised his forearm from against his side.
“Jesus . . . ,” Montana whispered. “He’s sliced bad, boss,” he called back to Madson.
“I see it from here,” Madson said.
As Montana stepped in closer to Sam he said, “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Obliged,” Sam said, “you can help me up from here.” He raised the rifle barrel up to Montana, who took it and pulled, helping Sam onto his feet.
“You able to make it on up to Shadow River?” Madson asked Sam, sounding concerned. “We’re going to switch these spent horse
s out. We’ll be traveling fast,” he cautioned. As he spoke, he gestured the men down from their tired horses.
“I’ll keep up,” Sam replied. His dun stood drinking from the water hole. As the men hurriedly stripped saddles and bridles from the sweaty exhausted horses, the animals staggered over to the water’s edge and drank.
Madson looked troubled. “I just realized, Jones, we’ve got no fresh horse for you.”
Sam just looked at him.
“But don’t worry,” Madson said. “Dress your wounds and stay back with Jon Ho and Burke. They’re bringing up these cayuses soon as they’ve rested some.” He gestured toward the worn-out horses. Then he looked at Jon Ho, then at Burke.
“What do you say, Clyde?” he asked. “Can the two of you take care of Jones?”
Sam caught something in Madson’s words. He looked at Burke and saw something there too, something he didn’t like seeing.
“Yeah, we’ll take care of him,” Burke said, looking away from Sam as if unable to face him.
“I can stay back, boss,” Montana said. “I might even sew him up and get him to stop bleeding.”
“You’re a doctor now?” Madson snapped at Montana.
“I’m just saying,” Montana replied, looking a little surprised by Madson’s sudden flare-up at him.
“You don’t have to just say,” said Madson. “Jon Ho and Burke are staying behind. All you’ve got to do is swap out your horse and get the hell out of here with us. We’ve got federales ready to stake our heads on a pole, they catch up to us.”
Sam stood watching, his forearm pressing the cool damp bandage to his side. Madson stepped over closer.
“I mighta been wrong not trusting you, Jones,” he said. “You get to Shadow River, you’re getting something more than just a fee for handling the relay horses.” He paused and nodded. “Next job we go out on, you’re riding up front, taking a full cut for yourself. How does that sound?”
