Comanchero Blood (A Dragoons Western Book 2)

by Patrick E. Andrews

Douglas, with his carbine, took steady aim and fired. The outlaw pitched over on his back. The sergeant calmly reloaded, saying, “I’ll say one thing for the Mexican race. I don’t think they ever sired a coward.”

  A fresh attack swept in on the west side, then another on the south. Bullets and arrows zapped through the air into the interior of the defensive position. When the Comancheros rode back out of range, three more Russians lay on the ground—one dead and two wounded.

  The dragoons had been able to help turn away the attack on the west side. Reloading and preparing for the next bit of action, they gave the area a professional appraisal.

  “We’ve lost five Russians and this here fight has just begun,” Fenlay said to his pal O’Hearn.

  “Maybe I should’ve stayed a trumpeter,” O’Hearn observed as he worked on loading the breech of his carbine. “I could be back at Fort Leavenworth about now sounding Mess Call.”

  The Comancheros stepped up their efforts for the rest of the day. The attacks grew so numerous and lengthy that the defenders lost track of time. Volley fire blasted out at the attackers as showers of arrows and swarms of bullets slashed the air on their way into the settlement.

  It became dangerous to draw water from the well by the main building, so by late afternoon, everyone on the firing line along with the dragoons was parched. The Americans helped the Russians by teaching them the Indian trick of keeping a pebble in the mouth to induce the flow of saliva. It gave some relief but not much.

  The sun, though far from gaining the intensity it would have in the summer, had grown extremely warm. Its rays battered down on the battle scene, adding to the discomfort of attacker and defender alike.

  Blood, along with sweat, also was spilled during the long day’s fighting. The dragoons were lucky, managing to remain unhurt except when Paddy O’Hearn ran face-first into the barricades during one particularly hot moment during the fighting. The Russians, on the other hand, did not fare so well. Two more of them died, and another, suffering a facial wound, was taken in to join the other three injured being tended to in the main building.

  Then Basil Karshchov took a hit. He staggered backward under the impact of the bullet and fell flat on his back. But he quickly rolled over and pushed himself to his feet.

  Gavin and Douglas rushed to him. While Gavin held his Russian friend, the sergeant ripped open the shirt where the round had entered.

  “Please!” Karshchov said. “Let me go!”

  “Just wait for Sergeant Douglas to check you over,” Gavin said. “It won’t take long.”

  “It don’t look too bad,” the sergeant said. He made a more careful examination. “But I can’t find no exit wound. See if you can move your arm.”

  Basil complied, exhibiting no problem in swinging the arm around. “How is that?”

  “That’s good,” Gavin said. “At least there’re no broken bones.”

  “I don’t feel so bad,” Basil said. “It doesn’t hardly hurt.”

  “Go inside and get bandaged up anyhow,” Gavin said, glad to see no heavy bleeding had started.

  “I must stay and fight!” Karshchov exclaimed.

  “If that wound stiffens up, you might not be able to fight anymore,” Gavin cautioned him.

  Basil reluctantly turned and hurried over to the main building to get the medical treatment over with as quickly as possible.

  The action began to taper off at that point, and dusk brought about a strange quiet. The shooting and bellowing, which had gone on for hours, suddenly stopped. No Comancheros showed up as the defenders anxiously waited. After an hour slipped by, it was obvious the outlaws had called it a day.

  “I reckon they’re in no hurry,” Douglas caustically observed. “Why wear theirselves out when they can finish us off in the morning.”

  Gavin MacRoss, sweat-streaked and powder-stained, took a grateful drink of water that Irena Yakubovski offered him. He put the ladle black in the bucket as she went off to tend to others. “We’ve already lost almost half our men on the line to death or injury. Tomorrow, our troopers will have to man those positions.”

  “That means the dragoons will begin to die, sir,” Douglas pointed out. He looked around. “Hell! We won’t make it much past noon.”

  “What do you know about that Comanchero leader?” Gavin asked.

  Douglas shrugged. “He runs his outfit by keeping his gang scared. If he catches a bullet, they’ll turn and run. But there ain’t no way we’re gonna get a chance to get him. His most loyal men won’t let him take no chances. They got a lot to lose if the son of a bitch dies.”

  Gavin was thoughtful for long minutes. Then he spoke with a new freshness. “Have the men saddle their horses.”

  “Sir?” Douglas asked, confused.

  “I said to get the troops ready to ride,” Gavin said. “Tell O’Hearn to get that bugle of his.”

  “Begging you pardon, Lieutenant,” Douglas said. “But what the hell for?”

  “We’re getting the hell out of here,” Gavin said.

  Twenty-One

  Count Vladimir Valenko, the wounded Basil Karshchov, and the other Russians watched incredulously as the dragoons mounted up.

  “Lieutenant MacRoss!” the old nobleman cried out. “What are you doing?”

  Gavin ignored the question. “The only thing left for you at this point is to man those barricades. Fight as I taught you and pray to God for deliverance.”

  Karshchov, his arm in a sling, looked straight into Gavin’s face. “Whatever you do, I am your friend and I understand. I know there is goodness and bravery in your heart.” He started to sob, but caught himself, although tears streamed from his eyes. “Live long and be happy, my friend Gavin.”

  The lieutenant motioned to Douglas. “Move out!” The troopers, in file, rode to an opening in the defenses past the dismayed Russians, who stood in mournful silence. None of the serfs said or murmured a word of complaint or condemnation. Being stoic no matter what the situation was an ingrained characteristic of the peasantry.

  Gavin avoided looking at the main building in case Natalia Valenko might be standing in the door or at one of the windows watching him and his men depart. He would never be able to bear a look of disapproval or contempt from the woman he loved.

  The lieutenant led his men out of the settlement, breaking into a canter as they entered the open country of the Kansas prairie.

  “Where do you think those Comancheros are camping?” Gavin asked Douglas.

  “Only one place around here, sir,” Douglas answered. “At that bend in the Republican River to the south.”

  “Then, we’ll head north,” Gavin said. “Gallop, ho!” With increased speed, the dragoons separated themselves from Nadezhda. After going a bit more than two miles, Gavin made a leisurely turn toward the east and Fort Leavenworth. He continued in that direction for five more miles. Then, with a waving signal, he made an abrupt turn to the south.

  The pace was slowed as the journey continued with more deliberation. After nearly an hour of southerly travel, Gavin raised his hand.

  “Detachment, halt!” The lieutenant turned his horse and signaled his men to ride closer to him. As they came to a stop, he glanced at O’Hearn. “Is that bugle handy?”

  “Slung over my shoulder as you see, sir,” O’Hearn reported. “Remember, sir, you told me to take it outta my saddlebags.”

  Next, Gavin spoke to Corporal Murphy. “You did a fine job on that corral at the Comanchero camp. We’ll be depending on your timing again.”

  “Don’t worry, sir,” Murphy assured him. “I’ll have ever’body ready, and O’Hearn is gonna play the sweetest bugle music since Gabriel.”

  “I’m not going to lie to you,” Gavin said. “We don’t have much of a chance as it is. If you fail, or are even the slightest bit late, there will be absolutely no way that Sergeant Douglas or I will return to Fort Leavenworth.”

  “I know that, sir,” Murphy said.

  “If something happens to foul up your part of this
mission, you are free to head straight for the fort,” Gavin said.

  “We’ll go back to Nadezhda,” Murphy said.

  “That's certain death,” Gavin said bluntly.

  “Hell, all us lads always knowed that, sir,” Murphy said. “But I’ll guarantee that we’re gonna do our damndest. Sometimes stubbornness can win over anything.”

  “That's all I can ask of you,” Gavin said. He nodded to Douglas. “What about you, Sergeant?”

  Sergeant Douglas said, “I’m ready, sir. May I respectfully remind the lieutenant that the rules of chivalry ain't gonna get us shit in this mission.”

  “I know, Sergeant,” Gavin assured him. “It's down and dirty from this point on.”

  “You might even call it murder, but we can't give ’em the slightest benefit of the doubt,” Douglas observed.

  “I realize our backs are against the wall,” Gavin said.

  “Anyhow, what the hell's the difference?” Douglas remarked. “If we don’t go to our maker over there, we would’ve done it in the settlement anyhow.”

  “Right,” Gavin said. “What the hell.”

  “We’d best leave, sir,” Douglas said. “The men all know what’s got to be done. So let’s do it.”

  Gavin waved at his men. “Good luck, everybody!”

  “Good luck, sir!” they replied.

  Gavin and Douglas left the others, riding off to the south in the moonlight. The two rode silently, keeping a sharp lookout around them. Finally the moonlight waned, and it was so dark they had to bring their horses to a slow walk to avoid any prairie dog holes or other natural obstacles. But the young officer had anticipated this, and allowed time for moving along at reduced speed.

  They continued on into the night before reaching the Republican River. They followed the waterway to the west, glad to have the sound of the rushing waters cover the noise of their horses’ hooves.

  “Ho!” Douglas said.

  “I see,” Gavin assured him.

  The pair of dragoons could observe the flickering light of campfires over the distant horizon. Now, going even slower, they pressed on until they could see the source of the light spread out along the riverbank.

  Douglas forced a grin. “It seems you and me been riding up to Comanchero camps quite a bit lately, Lieutenant.”

  “I hope we don’t develop a habit of doing this,” Gavin said. He pointed to some trees twenty yards from the river. “There's a good place to wait.”

  “I don’t see anything better,” Douglas said in way of agreement.

  They rode over to the stand of oaks and cottonwoods, easing inside the treeline before dismounting. They could hear shouts and laughter coming from the camp less than a half mile away.

  “They're really looking forward to tomorrow,” Gavin observed.

  “The son of a bitches,” Douglas said.

  “If you were a Comanchero and figured you'd be having your way with at least three women tomorrow, wouldn’t you be excited?” Gavin asked.

  “Hell!” Douglas said with a chuckle. “I’d feel that way anyhow.”

  The night grew cooler in spite of the warmth of the previous day, making the two soldiers glad they had their blankets to slip around their shoulders. Neither felt the least need of sleep as the hours crept by. When dawn began its daily appearance, both noted it at once.

  “Shall we go?” Gavin asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Douglas replied. “I’m in a real hurry to die.”

  “Keep up your optimism, Sergeant,” Gavin urged him as he mounted up.

  Douglas swung himself into the saddle. “I ain’t never been happy about nothing. That’s natural for sergeants.”

  Both pulled their revolvers and rode straight at the camp. As they entered, the dragoons passed a startled trio of Comancheros beginning to cook an early breakfast. Douglas, standing in the stirrups, pointed over in one direction.

  “There he is,” he said.

  Gavin and Douglas rode straight over to the lean-to where Guido Lazardo and his personal guards slept. The dragoons leaped from their saddles and pounced on the sleeping Sicilian, pulling him to his feet as they shoved the barrels of their revolvers under his chin. Lazardo yelled out, “Che cosa—”

  “Shut your goddamned mouth!” Gavin interrupted. “Or we’re going to send bullets up through your jaw and blow the top of your skull off.”

  Monroe Lockwood and Big Joe rolled out of their blankets and stared at the sight for one unbelieving moment.

  “Don’t make no moves, fat man!” Douglas warned him. “Or we’ll kill your boss.”

  “Do what he says!” Lazardo said.

  “Sure, Mr. Lazardo,” Lockwood assured him.

  Big Joe grinned at the soldiers. “Now, just what the hell do you two think you’re doing, huh?”

  Gavin shouted, “Everyone in this camp is under arrest in the name of the United States government!” Now the entire band was up. The rest of Lazardo’s five most loyal men drew in closer. The Indian Crazy Fox strung his bow and walked deliberately toward the three people.

  Douglas immediately fired, the bullet knocking the Indian flat as the arrow whipped harmlessly straight into the air. Then he quickly shot Lefty Dan and Lop-Head. Both men collapsed to the ground in death.

  “You listen to me, you dumb son of a bitches!” Douglas bellowed. “You draw off or die! You make it tough for us and we’ll kill your boss.”

  The majority of the Comancheros, not giving a damn whether Lazardo lived or died, simply stepped back to watch what would happen.

  Lockwood, poised for action, glared at Gavin. “There’s only two o’ you. You’re gonna lose out eventually.” He turned to the other Comancheros. “We’ll take care o’ these two peckerheads right quick, so don’t nobody get no ideas.”

  “Are you stupid enough to think we came in here alone?” Gavin asked him. “There’s a troop of dragoons from Fort Leavenworth just over the horizon.”

  “So why didn’t you bring them in with you?” Lazardo asked.

  Douglas kicked the Sicilian in the crotch so hard the man had to bend over to puke.

  “I owed you something,” the sergeant sneered. “I talked the lieutenant into letting me have some fun before the rest of the troops got here.”

  Gavin gestured with his pistol. “Nobody is to leave the camp. Remember! I have put you all—everyone—under arrest. You’ll be taken in for trial.”

  “Then hanging,” Douglas added.

  For several long moments nothing happened. Then the distant sound of a bugle could be heard.

  Some talking broke out among the Comancheros. Suddenly there was a flurry of activity as they immediately ignored Gavin’s order and began preparing to leave. Only Lockwood, Big Joe, Tarheel, and Runs Fast stood their ground.

  The bugle, closer now, sounded again, and a large cloud of dust could be seen on the horizon.

  “There’s gotta be a coupla hunnerd of ’em!” a panicky Comanchero yelled at his friends. “Haul ass, boys!”

  Within moments, most of the Comancheros were aboard their horses and scrambling toward the ford in the nearby river. Abandoned shelters dotted what had been their camp.

  In spite of his swollen testicles, Lazardo finally felt himself ready to talk. “You cannot get away!” he wheezed painfully. “I don’t care if a thousand of your soldiers are coming here!”

  Tarheel and Runs Fast looked at each other as the bugle could again be heard. As if on signal, both bolted away, heading for their horses.

  Monroe Lockwood spun on his heel, dragging his revolver from its holster. Two quick shots in the back ended the attempted escape as the two Comancheros stumbled, then went facedown into the dirt.

  Gavin shot Big Joe, the force of the bullet’s strike doubling him over. The large man gamely tried to get to his feet, but it was no use. He sat down. “I ain’t got no fight left in me,” he said in a mournful tone.

  Lockwood made another turn, this time only to catch a head shot from Douglas that made the back of
his skull explode in a messy spray of brains and blood.

  Big Joe sat in silence, looking up as he heard the approach of horses. When he saw the five dragoons dragging dust-spewing bundles of branches behind their horses as one of them trumpeted a bugle, he frowned at Gavin.

  “You’d never have did this to us in our reg’lar camp,” he said.

  Gavin released Lazardo, pushing him so hard the Comanchero lost his footing and sprawled to the ground.

  “You’re right,” he said. “That’s what occurred to me as I was mulling this situation over yesterday.”

  Douglas’s revolver fired again, putting a killing shot into Big Joe’s neck. The Comanchero slowly rolled over and died.

  “Would you call that murder sir?” Douglas asked.

  “In this case, I call it good riddance,” Gavin said. “I agreed that we wouldn’t take any chances by showing mercy, so I won’t offer you any complaints. Gather up our prisoner and let’s get back to Nadezhda.”

  Murphy and the others galloped into the camp, still kicking up large clouds of dust. “How’d we do, sir?” he asked.

  Gavin pointed to Lazardo, the dead men, and the empty camp. “You did damned good!”

  “Stop grinning like shit-eating pigs!” Douglas snapped. “We got to get back to the settlement.”

  The bundles of branches were cut loose, and the men formed up. Carlson caught a horse in the camp for Lazardo. The Comanchero, with his hands bound behind his back, was roughly lifted up into the saddle.

  “My faithful men will be back!” he screamed in rage and pain as spittle spewed from his mouth.

  “You ain’t got no faithful men,” Douglas said. “They was nervous enough being up this far north in country they didn’t know. None of ’em has the slightest idea of how near the closest army fort is.”

  “They’ll not chance a return here,” Gavin said.

  “That’s right,” Douglas went on. “That whole bunch is gonna be down in Texas before the end o’ this week.”

  Lazardo swung his hate-filled gaze at Gavin. “You are lucky! Damned lucky!”

  “I didn’t have a thing to lose,” Gavin said. “If this had failed, my men and I would have been dead. If we’d stayed at the town to continue the fight, we’d have died before this day ended anyhow.”