by J. T. Edson
‘That’s what we’ll do,’ Loving agreed.
Although aware that the Comanche did not normally attack at night—figuring that Ka-Dih, the Great Spirit, might not find the soul of a warrior killed in the darkness—the Texans took no chances. While Sid made up a meal of biscuits, pemmican and water, Loving watched the slope. Then they alternated a constant guard as the night went by. With the land before them illuminated by a bright full moon, they could see the Pecos well enough to detect any attempt to sneak up on them.
Apart from the glow of fires beyond the rim and the occasional coming and going of braves watching the cave’s entrance, there was no sign of activity from the Comanches. Yet Loving and Sid knew the Indians would be planning their next move, being temperamentally unsuited for passive siege warfare.
Sitting with his back against the wall and his Sharps carbine resting on his knees, Sid was waiting out the last hour or so before sun-up. Soon he would wake up his boss so that Loving could make preparations to meet the attack when it came.
A faint scuffling clicking noise from above drew Sid’s attention from the slope. Something fell, clattering lightly to the ground before the entrance. Sid tensed slightly as he saw the thing that disturbed him. A few small rocks had fallen from the rim over the cave. Which meant somebody was up there—and that somebody must be the Comanches. A puzzled frown creased Sid’s brow and he wondered what the Indians hoped to achieve from their new position. Rising sheer for a good forty feet, the wall could not be climbed. So the braves on top posed little threat to the defenders. Most likely they were a newly arrived group who were surveying the situation before joining the main body.
‘Boss!’ Sid hissed, figuring that Loving would want to know about the arrivals.
‘Stirring in his blankets, Loving sat up and looked around. Then he rose with the Henry in his hand and joined the other man at the entrance.
‘Anything doing?’
‘Not across the river, but I thought I heard something on the rim.’
‘Cover me!’ Loving ordered, then moved cautiously out of the cave.
Looking up, the rancher could see no sign of life on the rim. His thoughts ran parallel to Sid’s on the matter and he withdrew to shelter as a rifle cracked on the opposite slope, its bullet whining off the wall above his head.
‘Couldn’t see anything up there,’ the rancher stated on his return. ‘And there’s no way they could climb down near enough to do them any good.’
‘The chief’s on the other side,’ Sid answered. ‘Maybe come to see what the shooting’s about. It won’t be long now.’
‘That’s for sure,’ admitted Loving. ‘Unless they call it off now they know they can’t take us by surprise with a dawn rush.’
‘If they do hold off, Colonel Charlie ought to be getting here afore long.’
‘And running into odds of maybe ten to one. You can’t stack up against that many Kweharehnuh and hope to come out of it winning.’
‘Which won’t stop Colonel Charlie trying,’ Sid said. ‘We’d best hope that we can down enough of ’em so they’ll reckon their medicine’s all ways bad when our boys get here.’
Nodding grimly, Loving inched himself forward until he could look along the wall of the rim in each direction. Despite the area being in shadow, he found no signs of the Comanche having sent braves across the river to stalk the cave entrance on foot ready to attack when the main body made their assault.
Slowly the sun crept up and the dawn’s grayness lessened by the second. Sid wiped his palms on his shirt and exchanged a glance with his boss. On the rim, the chief and many braves sat their horses. At an order from their leader, the warriors armed with rifles opened fire on the cave. Then the mounted men swept forward in a fast-moving line. Leaving their places of concealment, the men with the rifles bounded on to the mounts led to them by companions. Down the slope thundered the savage warriors, yelling their war-whoops and exhibiting no caution or concern at the idea of facing the repeating rifle.
‘Give ’em hell, Sid!’ Loving ordered, lining his Henry.
Whipping the carbine to his shoulder, Sid took aim at what he figured to be the best target. To lay a better aim at the war-bonnet chief, he extended the barrel of the Sharps beyond the mouth of the cave. Two brown hands flashed into view from the wall at the entrance, grasping the barrel and giving a savage heave at it. Taken by surprise, Sid was jerked forward and fired the Sharps only to see its bullet throw up sand on the nearer bank of the stream. Unable to stop himself, the cowhand stumbled into the open and fell to his knees. Releasing the carbine after dragging its owner into sight, a Comanche brave snatched the tomahawk from his belt. Around whistled the sharp blade, biting into Sid’s skull and tumbling him to the ground.
An instant later the brave also died. Swiveling around Loving held his Henry at waist-level but drove a bullet into the center of the savage, paint-decorated face. Even as the Comanche went over backwards, another brave came into sight but from Loving’s side of the entrance. Swiftly the rancher swung his rifle, working the lever as fast as he could, and fired with the muzzle almost touching the buck’s chest. Thrown backwards by the impact, the Indian fell under the feet of two more braves as they leapt from the way he had come.
Loving’s thoughts on how so many Kweharehnuh had managed to cross the river and reach the wall flanking the entrance undetected received a rapid answer. Coiling down from above, a rope’s end descended before the mouth of the cave and agitated violently. Following the rope, a pair of legs slid into view, followed by the all but naked body of a tuivitsi. At the crack of the Henry, the young buck released the rope and crashed down.
Everything was clear to the rancher. During the night, the chief had sent men across the Pecos out of the defenders’ range of vision and climb the rim. When ready for the attack to begin, the men made their descent on ropes taken for that purpose. It was a smart notion, worthy of a war chief of the Antelope Comanches. Not even the rapid-fire qualities of the Henry could save Loving, for more warriors appeared and the rope before him seemed to be alive as other braves started to climb down.
Retreating, Loving prepared to sell his life dearly. Flame lashed from the Navy Colt held by one of the Comanches and the rancher felt lead burn into him. He reeled back a pace, the left hand dropping numb and limp to his side. Even as he let the rifle fall and grabbed at his holstered Colt, a second brave sent an arrow flashing into the cave. Pain ripped into Loving as the arrow sliced between his ribs. Staggering, he felt his legs buckle and he went down.
Chapter Two
I’ve Lost A Real Good Friend
Despite the importance of the herd of cattle to the fulfillment of his plans, Charles Goodnight did not hesitate when Spat rode up with news of Loving’s predicament. Nor did the fact that he might have excellent means of effecting a rescue in any way influence his decision. Even without the presence of the United States Army contingent, he would have acted in the same way. Having half a troop of Cavalry and a battery of Mountain Artillery along—they had arrived an hour after Loving’s departure—gave Goodnight a greater chance of saving his partner and friend. Always assuming that the Yankee officers were willing to lend a hand, that is.
In some ways Goodnight resembled a Comanche, being thick-set for his five foot nine inches of height and exhibiting a similar effortless grace when on the back of a horse. However, from his low-crowned, wide-brimmed white Stetson to his spur-heeled, star-decorated boots, his appearance said Texas cattleman. Instead of the usual calfskin vest, he wore one made from the rosette-dotted hide of a jaguar which, having strayed north from Mexico, made the mistake of killing some of his cattle. Around his waist hung a gunbelt supporting matched rosewood-handled 1860 Army Colts in contoured holsters. From under his left leg showed the butt of a Henry rifle. His tanned face, with its grizzled brown beard, was set in grim lines as he rode his bayo-cebrunos ii gelding towards the two Army officers.
When they heard Goodnight’s news and intentions, the officers
showed their willingness to help with the rescue. Like many of their kind, they had small love for Texans but Major Lane of the Artillery and 1st Lieutenant Leonard in charge of the Cavalry escort saw the possibilities of being involved. With promotion all but stagnant since the end of the War, they realized that even a moderately successful operation against a band of hostile Indians would bring them to the all-important notice of their superiors.
That especially applied to Lane. A career Artillery officer, he had been sent west with his battery to help fight the Apaches in New Mexico. Texas had Indian problems too, but the Territory of New Mexico supported the Union during the War Between the States and so received priority over the rebel Lone Star State. While the appointment had advantages, it also carried problems. Command in New Mexico rested in the hands of Cavalry officers, who naturally meant to see that their arm of the service received every benefit. Mountain artillery had been used during the War, but not in a major action or decisively enough for its capabilities to become generally known. Aware how hide-bound senior officers could be when presented with novel suggestions, especially from a rival branch of the Army, Lane saw the advantages of reaching Fort Sumner with a victory to his credit. He would find the commanding officer at the Fort more amenable if he brought news that his guns had already routed a band of marauding Indians.
‘I’ll have my men ready to march—’ Lane began.
‘We’re going to have to travel real fast, Major,’ Goodnight interrupted. ‘Was I you, I’d just take your three best guncrews and fastest mules. John!’
‘Yo!’ replied the rancher’s tall, lean and leathery-tough segundo, galloping up from where he had been talking with an exhausted Spat.
‘Send all but—eight with me,’ Goodnight ordered, pausing to decide how small a group he might safely leave to handle the cattle. ‘Reckon you can keep the herd moving with just eight?’
‘I’ll sure as hell try,’ John Poe answered. ‘Spat’s just told me about Oliver and Sid. He allows to ride back with you. I’ve got the wrangler fetching up a fresh horse for him.’
No less aware than Lane of the opportunities, Leonard put in, ‘My men’ll be ready to ride in fifteen minutes, Mr. Goodnight.’
‘I’ll take half of them while you command the rest here and escort the remainder of my battery,’ Lane corrected, not meaning to share any glory with a Cavalryman if he could help it. ‘Sergeant Major! One, Three and Five guns, four ammunition mules. I want two carrying solid shot, two with spherical case. Move it.’
‘Yo!’ answered the sergeant major and galloped off to obey.
‘Keep with the cattle until we rejoin you, Mr. Leonard,’ Lane commanded. ‘In fifteen minutes, Mr. Goodnight.’
‘We’ll be ready,’ the rancher promised.
Knowing the serious nature of the situation, everybody concerned with the rescue attempt worked fast. Fine cow-horse as it was, Goodnight would not be using the bayo-cebrunos for the work ahead. Instead he selected a powerful roan stallion, fast, with endurance to spare and steady in any kind of emergency. All the cowhands also picked from their mount—no Texan said ‘string’ for his team of workhorses—animals suited to long, hard riding.
Within fifteen minutes all was ready. Lane’s three howitzers were already carried by top-quality animals and it only remained to pick the four best of the remaining twenty-seven mules to carry the ammunition panniers. Having learned the need for mobility by fighting against the superb Confederate States cavalry, Lane’s men were all mounted, instead of working on foot as was usual among Mountain artillery batteries. From the way they handled their horses, Goodnight concluded Lane’s men had been well trained. They and the cavalry escort were veterans with combat experience.
Fifteen Texans, twenty-five cavalrymen and the crews for the three howitzers carried on six mules followed Goodnight and Lane away from the herd. The cavalrymen were armed with Army Colts and Springfield carbines, while the gunners wore revolvers only. Every Texan carried at least one revolver and a rifle or carbine of some description, although very few owned repeaters. For all that, they made a powerful addition to the rescue party.
After watching Goodnight depart, John Poe swung to the waiting cowhands. He saw that the herd had been deserted and its members stood grazing. Which was not what his boss wanted to happen.
‘Get them cattle moving!’ Poe bawled.
‘Just us?’ yelped a cowhand, for only eight of the actual trail crew remained. The cook and his louse were needed to drive the chuck- and bed-wagons, while the two wranglers left by Goodnight would be fully occupied with handling the remuda of reserve horses.
‘Naw!’ Poe spat back. ‘There’s half of the blasted Texas Light Cavalry coming up to lend a hand. Move it. Head ’em up and keep ’em going!’
Whirling their horses, the cowhands dashed to the herd. Watching them, Poe wondered if such a small body of men could deal with the fifteen hundred head of longhorn steers.
Much the same thoughts ran through Goodnight’s head and he wondered if he had done the right thing by telling his segundo to keep the herd moving. If anything happened to the cattle, he and Loving would be in bad shape financially. That did not worry Goodnight for himself, but Loving had a wife and children dependent on the success of the trail drive. Of course, the loss of the herd would mean that Goodnight would have to try some other method to make his dream come true.
Riding through potentially hostile country to a friend’s rescue was neither the time nor place to think of schemes for the future, important as they might be. So Goodnight put them from his mind and concentrated on the work in hand. At his suggestion, a pair of men skilled in such matters rode ahead as scouts. When they had found they could not hope to catch up with Spat, the braves who took after him stopped trying. Probably they had returned to their companions, looking for easier prey than the fast-riding cowhand, but there was no point in taking unnecessary chances.
All too well Goodnight knew the Comanche Nation. While a loyal Texan, he had declined to fight for the South during the War. Instead he had given his services for the benefit of the State by being a member of Captain Jack Cureton’s company of Texas Rangers. Acting as Cureton’s chief scout—the title ‘Colonel’ being honorary, granted in respect for his fighting ability and integrity—Goodnight had learned much about the Nemenuh iii So he realized the danger and knew that, unless Loving and Sid had been killed before reaching the shelter of the cave, other Kweharehnuh warriors would gather fast to share in the sport and spoils. By the time the rescue party arrived, there might be a large number of the hard-fighting Comanche braves present. If so, Goodnight did not want them to be warned of his coming.
To give them their due, the soldiers could handle their horses and mules real well. Veterans of the War, they knew how to travel fast for long periods and did not delay the Texans as the latter feared they might with the howitzers along. Ordinary horse-artillery, drawing their guns and limbers along on wheels, could not have kept pace with the mounted men across the range country. The mules, specially selected for their work, carried their disassembled lightweight howitzers at a speed equal to that of the horses.
On they rode, not even night’s arrival causing them to slow their pace. The scouts saw no sign of the braves who had pursued Spat, so Goodnight concluded they had returned to the main attack force. Nor did the Kweharehnuh appear to have taken the trouble to send out scouts. Probably they had assumed that the three white men did not belong to a larger body and that Spat had fled to save his life at the expense of his companions.
Reaching the rim above the Pecos, the rescuers stayed on top until the first hints of dawn began to appear in the eastern sky. Then Spat announced that they were within two miles of where he had left Loving and Sid.
‘I can’t hear any shooting,’ Lane said as the cowhand finished speaking. ‘Surely we should by now.’
‘It’s not likely,’ Goodnight replied. ‘Unless there’s no way of avoiding it, Comanches don’t fight at night.’
> ‘Maybe they’re not around anymore,’ Lane suggested, just a hint of disappointment in his voice.
‘If they’re not, Major,’ Goodnight answered coldly, ‘I’ve lost a real good friend. This’s Kweharehnuh country and they’re like bulldogs in a fight. Once they take hold, they stick until they’re killed or it’s over.’
‘What do you suggest?’ Lane asked in a low tone. While willing to accept advice from a man he had heard Army officers in Texas mention as an authority on Indian-fighting, he did not want his men to know that he requested it.
‘Was it me, I’d have the trail hands and at least half the horse-soldiers down there on the other side of the river and you up here with your guns where you can see what you’re shooting at. Soon’s we see the Comanches, we’ll let you toss a couple of cannon balls at ’em, then go in like the devil after a yearling.’
‘We’ll toss more than just a couple, and there’ll be case shot among them, seventy-eight musket balls a-piece.’
‘That’s your side of it, Major,’ Goodnight said. ‘Let’s get moving and find a place for my bunch to go down.’
Nodding agreement, Lane hid his surprise at discovering the rancher’s appreciation of how to handle the affair. Of course, many Texans had served in the Confederate Army and he recalled having heard the cowhands address Goodnight as ‘Colonel’. That could account for the other’s knowledge of tactics.
After riding on a short way, they found a place down which Goodnight’s part of the force could reach the river. Although the cavalry sergeant frowned when told by Lane to act as Goodnight ordered, he made no comment. Many anxious glances were directed by the Texans towards the eastern horizon, for they knew what dawn would mean if Loving and Sid should still be alive. Descending, they crossed the river and followed Goodnight along the west bank of the Pecos.
It was Lane’s party who saw the Comanche first. They were approaching a point where the valley made a bend that hid the Indians from the men at the lower level. Bringing his horse to a halt, Lane stared to where the braves had gathered at the head of the opposite slope. Trained eyes studied the scene and made various rapid calculations.
