The man’s horse tumbled to the ground, and the one immediately behind collided with it. Both riders rolled forward in the grass from the momentum of their spills.
Gavin pointed to them and shouted. “O’Hearn! Carlson!”
The two dragoons wheeled around to capture the fallen duo. Meanwhile, the lieutenant, Corporal Murphy, and Basil Karshchov kept a stubborn pursuit of the remaining Comanchero. The Russian, knowing he was far from expert in using the carbine at a dead-gallop, wisely held back as he allowed the two military men to close in on their quarry. The Comanchero suddenly wheeled to the east, then reined in hard. He leaped from his horse, dragging his long gun from its saddle boot. Immediately dropping to a stable, kneeling position, he took quick but skillful aim before firing at the nearest dragoon who charged down on him.
Gavin felt the ball whip close to his head as he rode past the outlaw. Murphy also streaked by, and made a quick turn with the lieutenant for another charge, Karshchov, fifteen yards behind, looked in terror as the Comanchero pulled his pistol for a shot at him.
Once more the snarling outlaw aimed carefully. But before he could fire, another shot sounded from the near distance. The Comanchero threw up his arms and pitched forward.
Gavin rode up, the third bullet from his pistol in the man’s skull. The sight of bloody brains spread around the cadaver showed there was no sense in checking out the man’s condition.
“Let’s go back to O’Hearn and Carlson,” Gavin said.
The pair, dismounted, stood by two Comancheros sprawled on the ground. “Both goners, sir,” O’Hearn said.
“One’s shot, and the other must’ve broke his neck when he fell,” Carlson added.
“At least they won’t be going back to the main group and reporting our presence out here,” Gavin said. He looked toward the east where Sergeant Douglas, Corporal Steeple, and Fenlay had ridden off. The horizon remained empty for a few minutes; then four horsemen appeared. One, sitting awkwardly in his saddle, had his arms tied behind his back.
Ten minutes later, the three dragoons dismounted and reported in with a prisoner. “His pal is dead, but we got this one,” Douglas said.
“He didn’t want to take any chances by staying on the run,” Steeple said.
“Well!” Gavin said, glad to see the captive. “This means that none of the Comancheros escaped to warn the main group. So let’s settle down for a session of question-and-answer with this fellow.”
The prisoner was a half-breed. His choice of clothing, similar to his bloodlines, was a mix of civilized and Indian attire. He wore a wool shirt and beaded, antelope-hide trousers. His hat sported an eagle feather, and he wore his light brown hair in Plains Indian style braids. His skin was fair, but his features could have been those of any average Kiowa or Comanche. He was quite a handsome man, but several scars across his face spoiled his looks.
“How’re you called, fellow?” Gavin asked.
The man spat. “My name is Michael.”
“Michael what?” Gavin inquired. “What is your family name.”
“That is my white name,” Michael answered. “That is all you need to know.”
Douglas hit the half-breed so hard that he spun around. But the Comanchero didn’t fall. He spat again; this time it was blood.
“That’s enough, Sergeant!” Gavin snapped.
“Yes, sir,” Douglas said, glaring at the prisoner.
“We know you are from the Comanchero band that raided the settlement up north,” Gavin said. “So don’t bother to deny it.”
Michael remained silent, looking off in the distance. “Where is your gang headed?” Gavin asked.
Michael shrugged. “To the south.”
“Where in the south?” Gavin asked.
“To the south,” the Comanchero repeated.
Karshchov could no longer contain himself. He leaped forward and grabbed the prisoner, shaking him. “Tell me about the pretty blond girl!” he yelled. “Where is she?”
Sergeant Douglas grabbed the Russian and pulled him away. “Take it easy, Mr. Karshchov.” He looked at Gavin. “Why don’t you and him take a walk, Lieutenant? You both need some cooling down. We can wait to talk to this fellow for a few minutes.” He turned his attention to the prisoner. “I’ll have to convince him he should open up some more.”
“I won’t have that man tormented, Sergeant,” Gavin said. “I mean it.”
“Yes, sir,” Douglas said. “You can trust me, but can you trust yourself?” He gave Gavin a meaningful glance. “I’m talking to you as both a friend and your second in command, sir.”
“I could lose my self-control,” Gavin admitted. “You’re right, Sergeant. I need a stroll to calm down.” He took Karshchov’s arm. “I think a short walk would serve you well, too, Mr. Karshchov. Let’s go off for a bit and collect ourselves.”
“Yes, Lieutenant,” the Russian said. “Are you fearful you will do some cruelty to this man?”
“I am,” Gavin said. “I can make him talk, but I need to be in complete control of myself.”
The pair left the others and slowly ambled away. The Russian was worried. “Will the man tell us what we need to know?”
“I hope so,” Gavin said. “There is much information I require before I can make any intelligent or meaningful decisions about what we must do.”
They walked a few more minutes before Karshchov said, “I would like to be your friend.”
Gavin was thoughtful for a few moments. Then he replied, “And I would like to be yours, Mr. Karshchov.”
“My Christian name is Basil,” Karshchov said. “If you wish to call me that, I would be honored.”
“I am Gavin,” the lieutenant said.
The two men shook hands, then continued their stroll. “If something happens to Natalia, I do not wish to live,” Karshchov said. “If I decide to stay and die even if it is useless, you must allow that. Surely you understand.”
“Yes, Basil,” Gavin said. “I believe I do.”
“Have you ever loved a woman?” Karshchov asked. “I mean in a sincere manner in which you go beyond lust. A woman for whom you really care?”
Gavin didn’t answer for a minute. Then he said, “No.”
“I hope someday that you do,” Karshchov said. “Only then will you know your true emotional and intellectual capacity as a human being.”
Gavin’s respect for Basil Karshchov took another step upward. He made a silent vow to reunite him with the woman he loved. The Russian deserved that, and so did Natalia. Gavin would have to push his personal feelings aside. The girl’s happiness was all that mattered.
A shot sounded from the place they had left the dragoons and prisoner.
Gavin, with Karshchov following, raced back. When he arrived he found the half-breed lying dead on the ground. “What the hell happened?” Gavin demanded to know.
“He tried to escape, sir,” Sergeant Douglas said.
The other dragoons looked impassively at their commanding officer as if to indicate they had nothing to do with the situation one way or the other.
“With his goddamned hands still tied behind his back?” Gavin asked. “Now how are we supposed to interrogate him?”
“The Comanchero band is headed where the Little Arkansas and the Big Arkansas come together, sir,” Douglas said. “That’s where they’ve set up a town. After checking out this prairie country and the Santa Fe Trail in particular for another month or so, they’ll take their loot and prisoners down into Mexico to sell and barter.”
Gavin looked at the dead Comanchero, now noting that he had been given a good beating. Both eyes were black, and his nose was freshly broken and bleeding. “Sergeant!”
“Am I relieved of my rank, sir?” Douglas asked.
Gavin sputtered, “No! But—”
“Will I be facing charges when we return to Fort Leavenworth, sir?” Douglas inquired further.
“No, Sergeant Douglas, I will not press any court-martial where you are concerned,” Gavin said.<
br />
“It’s the sergeants in the army that get things done,” Douglas reminded him.
“Thank you for telling me,” Gavin said. “But with you around, I shall never forget that fact.” He walked toward his horse. “Let’s mount up. We’ve a ways to go before we reach that Comanchero camp.”
O’Hearn, grinning, swung up into his saddle. As a professional soldier, he liked to see things done quickly and effectively. It was much more efficient, many times, when Army Regulations were bent until they broke. He waited for the others, then headed out to his usual position at the head of the formation.
Eleven
The Comancheros laid out their camp in a specially selected area where the Little Arkansas and Big Arkansas rivers came together in south central Kansas Territory.
The outlaws had an excellent reason for choosing that site to locate the band’s headquarters. River junctions, prominent bends in tributaries, and other features of waterways were used by everyone as landmarks in the flat, undistinguishable terrain of the prairie. With no outstanding land features such as valleys, peaks, or canyons, the only way to identify a certain place was by its proximity to either a watercourse or a prominent spot near it.
Since Guido Lazardo planned on sending plenty of scouting parties out, their quick and accurate returns with information and possible targets would be easier if they were able to find one of those rivers and follow it south toward the camp. Since none were familiar with that part of the country, they had no knowledge of the proximity or number of soldiers on those vast plains. Lazardo wanted to learn of all possible opportunities offered to him in the relatively unexplored wilderness of the Kansas Territory, but he didn’t want to lose any men in the effort.
Another consideration of the choice was that of defense. In the rare case some force strong enough showed up to attack, the rivers would hinder any outright assault.
The Comanchero camp—or town—was a hodgepodge of shelters that gave ample display of the ethnic divergence of the band. Store-bought canvas tents, Indian lodges, quickly constructed log cabins, crude lean-tos, and sod habitations had been located in a haphazard pattern that spread itself across the open area between the rivers. The woods there had been raided for trees to obtain building materials.
Certain areas were allotted for tending to nature’s calls, while the corral to keep horses and stolen cattle was on the south end to keep the animals from defiling the living area. On the north of the camp stood an imposing and sinister structure. Made of a double row of logs, this was the stockade where prisoners would be confined prior to removal to the south for sale to Mexican mines, Indian tribes, or others who had use for captive workers.
The inhabitants of Lazardo’s nomadic and murderous kingdom were the worst criminals of a lawless, wide-open frontier who knew law enforcement only as a sporadic, ineffective show of force that gave them little to fear. Naturally wild and troublesome, their conduct in the camp, though barbarous at times, was mostly kept under control. This was done out of stark fear of the leader, Lazardo. He knew from his own youth in his bandit culture that it was necessary to have some set of rules or complete chaos would break out in the form of murder, vengeance killings, thievery, and woman stealing. He also knew that he faced the constant threat of rebellion from some ambitious or disenchanted faction. This called for aggressive vigilance on the leader’s part.
Any habitual troublemaker was dealt with swiftly and without mercy. Lazardo’s favorite form of execution was to hang the condemned head-down until death. If the chief was particularly upset with the offender, a small fire would be set under the unfortunate to slowly roast his head.
The Sicilian had one idiosyncrasy he forced on his people. Lazardo made sure everyone called him Mr. Lazardo. During the time he had served aboard the British ship, he’d noted the way seaman addressed ship’s officers as “mister.” The captain, of course, was always addressed by that title. At first Lazardo wanted to be called captain—or one of the various foreign versions of that rank: capitan, captaine, capitano. But he found out there were higher ranks than that, such as admirals in navies and colonels or generals in armies. For that reason, he settled for the more sweeping title of “mister”—not senor, monsieur, or signore—but mister.
Somehow the English word carried more weight because it reminded him of the cadre of stern officers aboard British ships. Therefore, everyone regardless of nationality was required to address him as Mr. Lazardo, or suffer some very unpleasant consequences.
Lazardo’s quarters were located in the very center of the settlement, and consisted of several structures. A fine tent stolen from a Mexican army garrison was his dining room, complete with looted furniture of mismatched table and chairs. Some fine silver taken from a large Texas ranch house served as eating utensils.
He slept and took females for his pleasure in a sod-and-log structure that was thick enough to stop anything fired at it. Cannonballs could eventually bring it down, but only after several direct hits. Like his dining tent, the small house was furnished with fine but diverse chairs, beds, nightstands, and commodes.
The Comanchero chief conducted his business from an open-sided lean-to, where a large, throne like padded chair of heavy mahogany was located for his august person to sit in while making command decisions. That hefty hunk of furniture had come from a Mexican hacienda in which an entire family of patricians was massacred.
Located away from Lazardo’s lodging, where it was out of sight and smell of the headman, was that crude but strong stockade for the prisoners. It was a hideous, open place, where the wretched prisoners suffered many indignities during their confinement. The sun baked them during the hot afternoons, and the notorious prairie cloudbursts and thunderstorms tormented the people who had no shelter. Sanitary conditions did not exist within the area, nor was modesty taken into consideration. The prisoners had to relieve themselves in full view of the guards and their fellow sufferers.
Following the return from the raid on the Russian settlement, Lazardo took a hot bath, soaking his hairy body in sudsy water, then drying off and applying liberal splashes of cologne. After changing into his best clothes, which consisted of a silk shirt, fine wool pants and jacket, thick velvet cravat complete with diamond stickpin, and a tall beaver fur hat, he summoned his second in command, Monroe Lockwood.
The portly man promptly presented himself at the master’s quarters when he received the word he was wanted. Like other members of the band, he felt a stab of fear when called by Lazardo. Monroe Lockwood was an expert gunman, strong as a bear, and quick as a rattlesnake, but he was as nervous as a beaten dog around the Comanchero chief.
Lockwood smiled and nodded respectfully. “What can I do for you, Mr. Lazardo?”
Lazardo stood in his tent, checking his reflection in a small mirror mounted on the center pole. He carefully curled the tips of his moustache. “Fetch me the young blond woman.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Lazardo,” Lockwood said. “I reckon I’ll get Big Joe to help me out.” He chuckled nervously. “That big ol’ gal looking after her is gonna throw a fit.”
“Do it any way you wish, Lockwood,” Lazardo said. “Just get the beauty over here. I am anxious to enjoy her charms after I break her to my will.”
Lockwood hurried away, grabbing Big Joe by the arm as he walked past his cook fire. “C’mon, we got something to do,” he said.
The black man shook himself free. “Hey! I’m fixing to eat. It’ll have to wait.”
“Mr. Lazardo’s orders,” Lockwood said.
“I’m with you, Monroe,” Big Joe said. “What’re we gonna do?”
“We got to fetch that little blonde,” Monroe Lockwood said. “That big friend o’ hers is gonna raise some hell, you bet.”
“That’s a big, strong woman,” Big Joe said. He stood six-and-a-half feet high and weighed a solid, no-fat, muscular two hundred and fifty pounds. “She’s gonna be a load!”
“I’m just glad we’re both big fellers,” Lockwood said. The p
air of giants hurried through the camp until they reached the stockade. The guard in front waited for them to walk up to see what they wanted.
“We got to fetch a pris’ner for Mr. Lazardo,” Lockwood said.
The guard, a short, wiry Mexican, grinned. “I know which one. La huera—the blonde, eh?”
“That’s her,” Big Joe said. “She’s really caught Mr. Lazardo’s eye. Hurry on up and open the gate. We figger we’ll be fighting the large gal taking care of her.” The guard pulled out a key and slipped it into the huge padlock that held a restraining chain in place. “You’ll fight more than her, amigos. All them men in there has gathered around the blonde to protect her.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Lockwood demanded to know.
“You’ll see when you get in there,” the guard said. He finished his unlocking chore and held open the gate. “Pasan, caballeros,” he invited.
When Lockwood and Big Joe stepped inside the stockade, they noticed all the prisoners were gathered together at the far end. They were quiet, but stared at him and Big Joe with suspicious looks. In the middle of the group sat the blonde and her large companion.
“Clear the way, damn you!” Lockwood shouted. “We want that blonde there.”
Immediately everyone leaped to their feet. The women and children drew off to one side while the men closed ranks, glaring at the two Comancheros.
“We said for y’all to move your butts!” Big Joe warned them. “Now, we ain’t playing. Somebody’s gonna get they heads busted up good!”
The Russians, glaring in anger, held their ground. Some muttered in their language in a manner that showed they were giving their own warnings to the pair of Comancheros.
Lockwood sighted Natalia among several of the larger men. “You just come on with us, honey lamb,” he said in a futile attempt to sound soothing. “Mr. Lazardo just wants to give you some loving. Why, you’ll plumb like it. All the women is crazy over him.”
Natalia spoke up in a loud voice filled with angry defiance. “I will not go with you, sir!” she exclaimed. “I have ordered this man standing next to me that if it appears I am to be taken away, he is to kill me.”
Comanchero Blood (A Dragoons Western Book 2) Page 11
