Comanchero Blood (A Dragoons Western Book 2)

by Patrick E. Andrews

  Lazardo gave Douglas an inquiring look. “How long have you been a soldier?”

  “Oh, I reckon about fifteen years,” Douglas said. “But I been thinking of getting out.”

  “That’s a damn lie!” McRyan yelled out. “Anyhow, where’s his carbine? If he deserted, how come he didn’t take it with him? Ever’ dragoon has one, and we’re taught to keep it handy. This old bastard would never go nowhere without it.”

  “I had to leave my weapon behind,” Douglas said. “We stacked arms, and there wasn’t no way I could get it without getting seen.”

  “Liar!” McRyan bellowed. “Dirty damn rotten liar!”

  Lockwood cuffed him. “Shut up and let Mr. Lazardo do the talking.”

  Lazardo said, “It seems strange a man who is second in command would run away.”

  “I was in trouble,” Douglas said. “The lieutenant got mad on account o’ I hung these two shitheads by their wrists for a little while.”

  “A little while, eh?” Lazardo remarked with a smile. He pointed to Costello. “How long did this man hang you by your wrists?”

  “Four hours,” Costello said.

  Lazardo liked that. “I find it hard to believe doing such a thing would get you in trouble.”

  “The lieutenant don’t like that kind o’ discipline,” Douglas said. “I’d been warned about it before, so he said he was gonna put me up on charges for disobeying orders. I’d lose my rank and pay, and have to go back to being a private.”

  It made sense to Lazardo. He had known of boatswains on ships being broken back to the rank of common sailors for infractions. But he was still suspicious. He asked Douglas, “How did you get here?”

  “I walked most o’ yesterday,” Douglas said. “My horse busted his leg in a prairie dog hole, and I had to shoot him. I seen your camp and walked in.”

  “Did you know we were here?” Lazardo asked.

  “Nope. I found y’all accidental,” Douglas replied. “I was heading south to avoid the army, then was going to turn east and cross the Missouri River near the Arkansas line. But I seen this place and figgered it was a town.”

  “Well, mister, you walked into a Comanchero camp,” Lockwood said.

  “No shit?” Douglas remarked. “Maybe you could use me in your line o’ work. I guarantee you that I’m better out here than them two strawfeet.”

  McRyan’s hatred flared up. “By God, Douglas, I swore I’d kill you and I will!”

  This time it was Lazardo who hit him. “I decide who dies here!” he yelled in a rage.

  Douglas grinned at McRyan. “You sure been taking your licks in the past quarter hour, ain’t you?”

  Lazardo calmed down and became thoughtful. Finally, he said, “What is your name? Douglas, did you say?”

  “That’s it,” the sergeant said.

  “As you suggested, maybe we could use a man like you,” Lazardo said.

  Douglas indicated the stockade with a tilt of his head. “What’re you gonna do with them Russians?”

  “Sell them for slaves in Mexico or to Indians,” Lazardo replied. “All except for the pretty, young blonde. She says her father is a count.”

  “He is,” Douglas said. “Count Valenko is his name.”

  “McRyan and Costello told us that, too,” Lockwood said.

  “We will ransom her to him,” Lazardo said.

  “He’s real rich,” Douglas said. “So you should get a good potful o’ gold or greenbacks or whatever you want. I learned that he paid for all them folks to get over here and even bought the tools and wagons and other stuff.” By that time the new day’s sun radiated a reddish light through the trees on the riverbank. The camp had begun to stir as the people emerged from their dwelling places to relieve themselves first, then build up the fires that had ebbed into coals during the hours of darkness.

  By then Douglas was certain that Gavin had managed an escape. He felt relief with the realization and also because it seemed he would be able to move into the Comanchero gang. The important thing, once he was accepted, was to make contact with the dragoon detachment to take advantage of the situation.

  Lockwood had been thoughtful for the past several minutes. He finally spoke: “Maybe Douglas here ought to join me and Big Joe, Mr. Lazardo. We can use an extry hand, particular one that’s got experience in this part o’ the country.”

  “Good idea,” Lazardo said.

  “Sounds fine to me,” Douglas said agreeably.

  “While you were riding about, did you see any more of my men?” Lazardo asked. “I have sent various groups numbering three to six strong to scout out targets. A couple have yet to return.”

  Douglas shook his head. “Nope. I ain’t seen hide nor hair o’ Comancheros ’til I come in here last night. Y’know there’s plenty o’ Pawnees and Cheyennes in these parts with Comanches and Kiowas showing up now and then.”

  “My Comancheros have plenty of experience with Indians,” Lazardo said. “Most of the tribes now know us. My men carry gifts for them.”

  McRyan and Costello continued to glare in helpless fury at the man they considered their arch enemy. When they first sighted him in the camp, thoughts of him dangling head-down over a fire had danced through their minds. McRyan especially wanted to kill the sergeant.

  Costello, dull-witted and slow, carried his hatred in the same manner. It waxed and waned with his attention to what was going on around him. Usually, his mind turned off anything lasting over five or ten minutes, and his gaze would wander about for a bit. It was during one of these almost unconscious glances about that his brain suddenly snapped back into action.

  “What the hell is that over there?” he asked, pointing toward the river.

  A couple of Comancheros waded across the shallows leading a horse. The animal was saddled and equipped, appearing to be well-cared for.

  Suddenly McRyan crowed, “That’s the sergeant’s horse, by God! The lying son of a bitch said it busted its leg!”

  Even Costello figured out what was going on. “It’s been hid over there all night just waiting for him to come back!”

  Douglas dropped his hand to his holster in an instant decision to go down fighting, but a heavy fist slammed into his jaw, spinning him around before he could clear leather with the Colt.

  Douglas was barely aware it was Monroe Lockwood who had attacked him, but the dragoon fought back gamely. He struck out blindly, feeling a pudgy nose crunch under the impact of his knuckles. Another desperate punch hit Lockwood’s gigantic belly, and Douglas connected with the hard muscle under the fat.

  Jack McRyan moved in to take advantage of the dazed sergeant. He hit him with a whip like motion that rocked Douglas’s head back. Although small, McRyan could pack a wallop when he wanted to. Where Sergeant Ian Douglas was concerned, he most certainly desired to inflict physical pain. He smacked him around more.

  Douglas rolled and dodged the best he could, barely able to make out his attacker as a haze of semi consciousness settled over him. Dizzy, but game, he moved in to attack.

  But Costello was not simply standing by. He rushed Douglas, delivering a vicious kick to the side of his leg that propelled him sideways.

  “Take that, you bastard!” Costello yelled.

  McRyan didn’t let up. He was able to move in and out at will, peppering Douglas’s face without sustaining any injury. Finally, able to plant his feet and punch deliberately, the deserter’s blows broke the sergeant’s nose, sending a spray of blood outward.

  Costello worked the back of Douglas’s head and neck with hammering punches that finally brought the victim down to his knees. Douglas was unaware of what was happening to him by then. His hands dropped to his sides, and he took the blows without feeling them for another full minute before finally passing out and falling face-first to the dirt.

  “That’s enough!” Lazardo roared.

  Lockwood stepped in and grabbed the two assailants, easily pulling them away. “We ain’t gonna get a dime outta him down in Mexico if you kil
l him, assholes!” McRyan was giddy with happiness. “How much you want for him, huh? Me and Dennis’ll buy the son of a bitch from you. How’s that?”

  Lazardo laughed. “He is worth at least ten thousand pesos. Where are you going to get that kind of money?”

  “Can’t we make some sort o’ deal?” McRyan pleaded.

  “You must really hate that man,” Lazardo said.

  “I never wanted to kill nobody so much in my life,” McRyan said.

  “Me either,” Costello added.

  “Maybe we can work something out,” Lazardo said. “When he has come back to his senses, we will want some information about what the rest of those soldiers are doing. Meantime, throw him in the stockade with his Russian friends.”

  Lockwood nudged the pair. “You heard Mr. Lazardo. Each o’ you grab a leg.”

  The two deserters quickly obeyed. They dragged the unconscious sergeant as Lockwood followed along to see that they did no more damage to him. When they reached the stockade gate, the guards opened it.

  McRyan looked at Lockwood. “Can we throw him in?”

  “Sure,” Lockwood answered. “Just don’t let him land on his head.”

  Costello grabbed Douglas’s feet, and McRyan his hands. They swung back and forth, counting:

  “One!”

  “Two”

  “Three!”

  “Heave!”

  Douglas, limp and insensible, hurtled through the air and hit the ground hard. As the gate slammed shut, a couple of the Russian men came forward. Recognizing the new prisoner, they carefully picked him up and carried him to the spot where the others had gathered.

  Irena Yakubovski called out to Natalia, telling her of the new arrival. The young noblewoman, tending to some of the children, left her task and walked over. She knelt down beside the sergeant.

  “Is he hurt bad?” she asked in Russian. “Will he die?”

  One of the men checked Douglas, who now moaned. “I think not, Lady Natalia,” he answered. “But he has been given a severe beating.”

  Douglas began to awaken, his eyelids fluttering. Finally, a vision of Natalia Valenko swam into his sight. Still dazed and confused, he asked, “Are you an angel?”

  Natalia smiled. “Not at all, Sergeant Douglas. You are locked up with the Russians.”

  Douglas groaned and, as his mind eased to wakefulness, sat up holding his battered face. “God!”

  “How did you get here?” Natalia asked. “Where are the other soldiers?”

  “If they’re smart, they’re halfway back to Fort Leavenworth now,” he answered. Then he remembered Gavin’s feelings for the young lady. “On the other hand, Lieutenant MacRoss ain’t always real smart.”

  “Will they rescue us?” Natalia asked.

  “They’ll either do it or die trying,” Douglas replied. He tried to get up, but the effort brought on a bad spell of dizziness that took him back into unconsciousness.

  Fourteen

  When Gavin emerged from his swim across the Little Arkansas River, he rushed to his horse and grabbed his carbine. Worried sick about Ian Douglas, he returned to the waterway’s shore to slip into the brush. After loosening the Colt revolver in its holster, he waited to see if the sergeant would be making an escape bid. Gavin planned on giving his friend some covering fire in case he needed it, and the determined lieutenant didn’t care if it meant sacrificing his own life.

  But as the dawn began to lighten the area, Gavin knew it was useless. It had become time to employ cold logic rather than irrational bravado to the situation. Now he stood a good chance of being discovered himself. There was nothing to be gained by staying in the area, and a hell of a lot to lose.

  Gavin decided to leave Douglas’s horse in case the sergeant would need it if he managed to break loose. Reluctantly and sadly, the officer returned the two miles to the concealed dragoon camp.

  His arrival without Douglas caused looks of concern from the dragoons and Basil Karshchov in particular. The Russian kept his curiosity to himself. He had become sensitive about bothering Gavin during that difficult time. Corporal Steeple had no such reservations.

  “Where’s the sergeant, sir?” the dragoon asked.

  “They’ve got him,” Gavin said. “McRyan and Costello are in the camp. They betrayed Sergeant Douglas. From the appearance of things, I am certain those two deserters are members of the Comanchero gang.”

  “God damn those bastards!” Steeple cursed. “How did they link up with Comancheros?”

  “Beats the hell out of me,” Gavin admitted. “But there they were, and they didn’t waste a second in pointing out Sergeant Douglas to the others.”

  Basil Karshchov slumped noticeably as he sat down at the campfire. “All is lost!”

  “It doesn’t look good,” Gavin admitted.

  “Gavin,” he said. “I think it is time for me to remind you of your promise.”

  Gavin turned his horse over to Fenlay and O’Hearn before joining Karshchov. “What promise is that, Basil?”

  “That I be allowed to die for my Natalia,” Karshchov said. “I could not leave without her and still want to live.”

  “I’ll keep my promise,” Gavin said. “But only when the situation is hopeless. Right now, we’ve work to do.”

  Basil sat up straighter. “Do we still have a chance?”

  “Yeah,” Gavin said. “Not a good one, I’m afraid, but it’s better than nothing.”

  “Let’s give her a try, sir,” Corporal Steeple said. “We certainly shall,” Gavin said. “Fetch Corporal Murphy and make sure the rest of the men are out on guard. Comancheros are wandering around all over the place.”

  “Yes, sir,” Steeple said. “I’ll be back right quick.”

  Karshchov was miserable. “I feel so helpless!”

  “Don’t worry, my friend,” Gavin assured him. “We are going into action soon, and you’ll be right there in the middle of things.”

  “I will do my best,” Karshehov promised.

  “I’m sure you will,” Gavin said.

  Steeple and Murphy joined them, the veteran corporals calm and professional as they sat down to hear what orders their commanding officer was about to issue.

  Gavin pulled his sketch map from his pocket and spread it out for all to see. “This is the Comanchero camp,” he explained. “To the north is where the prisoners are kept within a log stockade. I have found and prepared a place where we can break inside in order to lead our friends out.”

  Murphy looked at the map. “What’s that on the south end, sir? Another stockade?”

  “No,” Gavin answered. “It’s the corral where the Comancheros keep their mounts. None are stabled or hobbled within the living area.”

  Murphy spat into the hot coals. “Even a gang o’ miserable son of a bitches like Comancheros don’t want to walk around in a bunch o’ horseshit, do they?”

  “I guess not,” Gavin said. “That’s going to be to our advantage. As a matter of fact, Corporal Murphy, that corral is going to be your responsibility.”

  “I’m ready, sir,” Murphy said in a determined tone. “You just say, ‘For’d ho!’ and I’m on my way.”

  “The structure is held up by poles on which large saplings have been lashed,” Gavin explained. “The pole that is closest to the place where the rivers converge is the key to the corral’s stability. When it goes, the whole thing falls.”

  “Yes, sir,” Murphy said. “If a rope is dropped over it and pulled, then down comes the saplings, and with some help from me and Fenlay, them horses take off.”

  “Exactly,” Gavin said. “But don’t make a lot of noise. The river will cover up any sounds of the corral’s collapse, but we mustn’t have the horses going into the camp. That would alert every Comanchero in the place. My plan hinges on them being completely ignorant of what’s going on. Therefore, you must very deliberately head the horses into the river.”

  “I understand, sir,” Murphy said. “When that’s done, should we join you?”


  “No,” Gavin answered. “You and Fenlay come straight back here and wait.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Gavin turned to Steeple. “You and the rest, along with Mr. Karshchov, will go with me. We’ve got to time our activities to take place a little after the horses are turned loose.”

  “Is that to give the Comancheros a chance to figger out their mounts is freed up and swimming away?” Steeple asked.

  “It sure is,” Gavin said, pleased that the two noncommissioned officers grasped what he was going to attempt. “That is important because it will draw them away from the stockade. That’s one reason I want Corporal Murphy and Private Fenlay to get the hell out of there as quickly as they can without getting spotted.”

  “We will, sir,” Murphy remarked with a grin. “Don’t fret none on that. I don’t much hanker for an invitation from them outlaws.”

  Gavin smiled. “Can’t say that I blame you.”

  “Go on, sir,” Steeple urged him.

  “With all the Comancheros’ attention to the south, particularly when faced with the difficulty of retrieving their herd from the river, we can make a smoother escape from the stockade,” Gavin said.

  “What’s our actions gonna be there, sir?” Steeple said.

  “I want you, Carlson, and O’Hearn to stand watch outside while Mr. Karshchov and I go inside to escort the prisoners out,” Gavin instructed. “But before that, you and I are going to have some deadly business to take care of.”

  “Yes, sir,” Steeple said. “Knife work, is it?”

  “Exactly,” Gavin answered. “There’re two guards at the front gate. If they happen to notice what’s going on inside the stockade instead of worrying about their horses, our mission will fail. So, you and I have to bring our blades into this. That means stab and slice the throats of those sons of bitches.”

  “You and me can do it, sir,” Steeple said.

  “They must die,” Gavin said in all seriousness. “We can’t have any unnecessary struggling and yelling.”

  “The bastards’ll go quietly to hell,” Steeple assured him.

  “After that, I’m taking Mr. Karshchov inside with me,” Gavin said. “You others stand by and wait outside the walls.”