“I suppose you’re right,” Big Joe said. “You can only torment somebody for so long afore it ain’t fun no more.”
Lazardo led the way into his cabin and settled down. Lockwood fetched tin cups and a jug of tequila while Big Joe made himself comfortable by settling down on a blanket and leaning against the log wall. Within moments, each man had taken several deep swallows of the Mexican liquor and uttered their approval with belching, licking of lips, and, in Lockwood’s case, by emitting a loud fart.
They drank in silence for several moments; then the first shriek echoed out over the camp.
“That would be McRyan,” Big Joe observed.
“I think you’re right,” Lockwood said, passing the jug.
Another, higher-pitched, lingering scream sounded. It ended in a sobbing wail.
Lazardo laughed. “Better them than me!”
“I’ll drink to that,” Lockwood said, raising his cup.
Now the screeching and howling came in pairs, keeping up a continuous sound as the evening’s darkness closed in.
“The boys is letting the Injuns do the tormenting,” Lockwood casually observed.
“They’re the best at it all right,” Big Joe said.
Lazardo took another drink. “During my days at sea, I heard that the Chinese are particular good at making painful deaths linger. A couple of sailors I knew claimed they had seen something called the death of a thousand cuts.”
Lockwood guffawed. “How can anyone count when they’re having so much fun?”
The trio fell into silence, sometimes paying attention to the sounds of agony, and other times either lost in their own thoughts or dozing. Lazardo did not sleep. His mind raced with making the plan to overrun the Russian settlement.
The outlaw leader had started life a bit dull-witted, but days of living in the dangerous Sicilian bandit world, the violence of forecastles at sea among rough seamen, the criminal world of southern Europe, and now the Comancheros had sharpened his mental capacities to the fullest. He brought all his cunning and acquired wisdom into the process.
Finally, as the sky began to lighten, Lockwood got to his feet. “Time to end the fun,” he announced. He looked at Lazardo. “If we still want to make an early start, that is.”
“We certainly do,” Lazardo assured him.
“I’ll go with you, Monroe,” Big Joe said.
The two went across the camp in time to see the crowd beginning to break up. The Comancheros had begun to drift away from their night’s activity.
“All done, huh?” Lockwood asked Lop-Head.
“Yeah,” the man answered in angry disgust. “The Injuns was doing right good; then a coupla Mexicans wanted in on the fun, and they got carried away. Killed ’em off in about an hour and a half. Damn!”
Lockwood glanced over to see the charred hunks of flesh that had once been Jack McRyan and Dennis Costello.
“Fun can’t go on forever,” he observed.
Big Joe took a deep breath. “Now listen here, y’all! We’re moving out to get that town. Mr. Lockwood wants ever’ swinging dick mounted/equipped, and armed at the shallows within a half hour. Now move!”
With Lazardo back in firm control, none wanted to cross him. The men hurried away, their women following to help in preparing for the trip. The entire camp hustled as horses were fetched from the corral and saddled. Haversacks and other carrying implements were stuffed with everything from powder and ball to food and extra moccasins. At the appointed time, the entire gang of Comancheros sat in their saddles as their leader, Guido Lazardo, galloped in front of them.
“Now!” he shouted. “We go to make the final vengeance. When we are finished I want everyone in that Russian village—no matter whether man, woman, child, or soldier—to be either dead or a prisoner. Do you understand?”
The outlaws shouted their comprehension and vows to exceed anything they had ever done in the past.
“Come now, mes braves!” Lazardo shouted. “Valientes mios! My brave men! Coraggi! Follow me!”
The Comanchero chief kicked his horse’s flanks and led the way across the shallows, turning north as his men followed after him, roaring their battle lust and waving their long guns over their heads.
A few moments after they left, one of the village dogs, with others of its kind closely following, ran along the riverbank with something in its jaws the others also wanted.
No one could tell, as the curs snarled among themselves, whether the hand clenched in the animal’s teeth belonged to Jack McRyan or Dennis Costello.
Twenty
In the twenty-four hours since the return of Lieutenant Gavin MacRoss, his dragoons, and the captives to Nadezhda, the Russian settlement took on a decidedly different appearance.
All outlying structures and buildings, including outhouses, had been either torn down and hauled away, or put to the torch. Even the prairie grass had been fired in the concentrated effort to make sure there was nothing left to give any attackers or snipers cover to approach close enough to effectively fire into the town without risking their lives. A blackened, flat area of empty plains country stretched out for a minimum of a hundred yards around the entire perimeter of the community.
Within the defensive area, all wagons and much of the debris from the hard work of destruction had been combined with shoveled piles of dirt to construct a circular barricade. The dominant feature inside this crude fortress was the village’s central building constructed of logs previously cut in New England and brought out to be used for that structure. It was a strong edifice, offering cover and protection to the noncombatants and any wounded moved inside.
All of the surviving Russian men were positioned around the entire defensive position. Each had plenty of powder and ball along with drinking water and eating utensils if it became necessary to take meals on line. Their posts were to be permanent during the upcoming battle. The dragoons, on the other hand, were to be a flying squad, ready to rush to any portion of the defenses where extra firepower—or carbine butts, knives, and fists—would be needed.
Basil Karshchov, grim and determined, had the responsibility of making sure firing orders would be shouted in the Russian language. Valenko, because of his age, would be in a stationary position to either help Karshchov or take his place if he were killed or wounded.
Those two, along with Gavin MacRoss and Ian Douglas, each kept one bullet back for Natalia. This was a secret kept by the four men. If word of their impending plans for the young woman were known, then all the people in the settlement would be cast into despair.
That first night after all the construction was completed, every man slept at his post. A fifty-percent alert was in effect so that every portion of the perimeter had at least a couple of men awake and alert. Strict light and noise discipline was observed to ensure that nothing would attract attention to that exact spot in the expanse of prairie where the settlement was located. If the Comancheros were going to locate the place, Gavin was determined to make them work at it.
The women and children bedded down in the main structure, also keeping quiet. The women gossiped in whispers, shushing the kids whenever any got too rambunctious. Fussing babies were quickly nursed without regards to feeding schedules, for the sound of a squalling baby would carry far out into the open country. The sky was cloudy that night, obscuring the moon. Nadezhda was almost invisible and soundless in the darkness.
The night passed without incident, the hours marked only by the changing of the guard and restless slumber as the people in the town prepared for the fight of their lives.
The first hint of dawn brought everyone on full alert without having to be urged into wakefulness. Water had been drawn from the new well and placed in buckets in the main building. An area for any wounded was set aside, and food was ready for everyone. The men took turns going in for bowls of thick supu and fresh-baked bread along with cups of hot coffee. With Sergeant Ian Douglas moving things along, the meal didn’t take long. In twenty minutes, every man was back
at his post, fed and anxious.
A period of waiting began. The sun grew warmer as birds flitted and scolded each other, and insects buzzed in the balmy air. A few people, tired from loss of sleep the night before, drifted off when it wasn’t their turn to be on alert.
“Enemy south!”
Sergeant Douglas’s shout as he stood atop the barricade with field glasses startled everyone. Karshchov reacted first, repeating the warning in Russian. All the men leaped to their positions, and any woman or child outside rushed to the main house as per instructions.
“Stand steady!” Gavin warned everyone. He hurried over and climbed up on the overturned wagon to join the sergeant. He took a look. “That’ll be the advanced scouts.”
“Yes, sir,” Douglas said. “They’ve found us.”
“It won’t be long now,” Gavin said.
“O’Hearn was wondering if he should get out his trumpet,” Douglas said. “He’s always anxious to show off with it.”
“That’s right,” Gavin said. “I remember when he was the company bugler. A pretty good one, too, as I recall.”
“He figgered he could make more rank as a trooper,” Douglas said. “He still practices now and then.”
“I’m sure he’s still an excellent field musician,” Gavin said. “But we’ve more use for his carbine than his bugle, even though I’m sure the music would encourage everyone.”
“I’ll tell him to keep it in his saddlebags,” Douglas said. He took another look at the Comancheros. “We’re iust about to get into the fight of our lives,” Douglas said. “Or the last.”
“You’re right on both counts,” Gavin said. He held out his hand. “Good luck, Sergeant Douglas.”
Douglas took it in a tight grip and grinned. “Same to you, Lieutenant.”
“Let’s go to work,” Gavin said, jumping down from the barricade.
“I’ll tend to the dragoons,” Douglas said, also leaping to the ground. He walked off to where the five dragoons, with carbines and pistols charged, locked, and loaded, waited for the fighting to begin.
A few moments later, a murmur arose from the Russians. They had all been watching the horizon where, quite suddenly, more than a hundred riders appeared.
Gavin joined Douglas. “Those cursed Comancheros know they’re easy to spot against the skyline. They’re just putting on a show for us.”
“They won’t stay out there long,” Douglas said.
“You’re right,” Gavin agreed. He waved to Karshchov. “Tell the men to make sure they’re locked and loaded, Basil.”
Basil shouted out at the Russians in their language. All waved back at him and displayed the Enfield muskets to show the weapons were ready for action.
Some distant shouting and taunting could be heard; then suddenly the ground rumbled as hundreds of Comancheros kicked their horses into action. They quickly went into a full-speed gallop as they charged straight at the settlement.
“Dragoons to the south side!” Gavin ordered. Douglas and his troopers immediately responded, moving into position between the Russians there. “Stand steady and wait for orders!” Gavin yelled. Basil Karshchov beside him made a quick translation for the serfs. The Comancheros were fifty yards away and closing fast.
Gavin hollered, “Cock your pieces!”
Yelling in several languages, the Comancheros had closed the distance to within twenty yards.
“Aim!”
It was easy to see the battle lust in the distorted features of the attackers as they roared straight at the south side.
“Fire!”
Smoke, flame, and ball ammunition blasted outward, plowing straight into the Comancheros. Men and horses screamed and tumbled to the ground. The many survivors quickly turned away, riding back out of range to leave a dozen dead and maimed scattered less than ten yards away from the defenses.
“Reload quickly!” Gavin urged his men.
Douglas, who kept his carbine slung across his back, held his smoking revolver. “That was just a test on their part, sir,” he observed. “Now they know we can bite.”
“They’ll adjust their tactics to allow for that,” Gavin said. “You can bet that Comanchero chief didn’t put his best men to the front for that little escapade.”
“I didn’t get to know Lazardo too good,” Douglas said, “but there ain’t no doubt in my military mind that he’s got the skill it’ll take to break us here.”
“If he’s willing to pay the price,” Gavin said. “Which, of course, we know he is.”
The dragoons pulled back to reposition themselves in their waiting area. The professional soldiers, quiet and ready, were in direct contrast to the happy, chattering Russians. Count Valenko, the ex-infantry officer of the czar, quickly got them to shut up and turn their attention toward the enemy.
Barely fifteen minutes went by before the Comancheros made their second appearance of the day. This time, rather than massing for a single, overpowering charge, the outlaws were strung out in a line, with plenty of space between them to make difficult targets. They sauntered along at a center, circling the settlement from left to right. They stayed just beyond rifle range for three complete circuits. Then they moved closer, kicking into a gallop.
“Don’t fire until ordered to,” Gavin urged everyone.
Suddenly a group of twenty Comancheros dashed toward the barricade. They unleashed an uneven volley, then turned and rode out of range.
One of the Russians staggered back from his position and collapsed. A quick check by Valenko showed the man to be dead. The old count ordered the others who had come to help him to return to their posts.
Another attack hit the north side of the line. Bullets zinged over the defenders and slapped into the main building, sending showers of splinters flying outward. But there were no casualties.
The Comancheros went back to circling, yelling taunts at the defenders. The dragoons, ready, stood tensely waiting for something to happen. The last two probes had been too quick for them to reach the affected areas.
Sergeant Ian Douglas spat. “By God! I’d give my left ball for a cannon full o’ grapeshot.”
He’d no sooner spoken, than a group of fifteen outlaw horsemen swept in close. Several Indians were among the group, and arrows along with bullets flew into the defensive compound.
Gavin, not wasting any more precious seconds than necessary, managed to get the men to loose a fusillade at the attackers. One of the enemy fell, but a Russian was taken from the fight, too, moaning in agony with an arrow in his right shoulder.
“Attack on the east side!” came the call from Corporal Murphy, who noted a sneak move immediately after the previous assault.
This time the outlaws rode in closer, going straight at the defensive positions. A ragged volley did them no harm, and they turned away—all except one.
A Mexican, yelling in grotesque fury, rode straight at the barricade. His huge sombrero, hanging down his back, flopped in the wind as he jumped across the defenses and rode through the compound. He held a revolver in his hand, firing and yelling. The Russians on the far end of his charge turned and shot at him without waiting for orders. But, in their haste, they missed the fierce attacker.
But the shots unnerved the Mexican’s horse, causing the animal to hesitate and slow down considerably.
The rider pulled on the reins and began a wild gallop toward the spot where he’d entered the settlement. He’d gone no more than ten yards before a large Russian left his position and ran after him, catching the Mexican by the arm and pulling him out of the saddle to crash heavily to the ground.
The Russian was a big, heavy, strapping peasant and the Comanchero a small, thin fellow. But he was full of fight. He snarled and hit and kicked at the man who had grabbed him. The serf tried to hold on, but the Mexican broke loose and made a run for the barricade. He fired at the men in his way as he raced for freedom. But after three pulls on the trigger, his weapon was empty. Now, pulling his knife, he continued his escape.
Se
rgeant Douglas grabbed a loose piece of log from the barricade and hurled it at the running man’s feet. It struck true, tripping him into a hard fall. Before he could get up, the American was on top of him, grasping the Comanchero’s wrists in tight grips, shaking hard. The knife came loose; then Corporal Murphy and Paddy O’Hearn moved in to complete the capture.
The captive’s hands were quickly bound, and he was dragged over to Gavin MacRoss and Basil Karshchov. The Mexican cursed them, their mothers, and their grandmothers as he stood before the defenders. A hard slap across the face from Gavin calmed his down. He shut up and looked around. Then he laughed out loud as he surveyed the small settlement.
“You are all going to die!” he said in English.
“I reckon you figger we ain’t got much of a chance, huh?” Douglas said, cuffing him.
The man spit blood. “You ain’t got no chance, gringo. No better than me now.”
Douglas looked at Gavin. “What’re we gonna do with him, sir.”
“First, take him around the barricade for all the men to see, then drag the son of a bitch inside the main building and show him to the women,” Gavin said. “That should dispel any notions about these Comancheros being super humans.”
“That’d cheer ever’body up all right,” Douglas said. “Then what am I supposed to do?”
“Sergeant Douglas, I don’t give a damn,” Gavin said. He turned his attention back to the job at hand.
Douglas, along with O’Hearn and Corporal Murphy, dragged the outlaw around where he got a few more punches from the Russians. A tour through the building where the women were proved worse for the prisoner.
The females clawed, scratched, and kicked the Comanchero while he did his best to twist away. After enduring that pain and indignity, the fellow was taken back to the barricades and thrown over on the other side. He jumped up and, rather than making an attempt to flee, turned and faced the defensive line.
“I ain’t gonna run from you hijos de tus chingadas modus!” he bellowed in defiant anger.
Comanchero Blood (A Dragoons Western Book 2) Page 20
