by Jeff Guinn
THIRTY-FOUR
After the saloon door banged shut behind him and was secured, McLendon wanted to lie limp on the floor and catch his breath, but he had no opportunity.
“Get your Colt and start shooting, C.M., we got to drive these bastards off!” Bat cried, and when McLendon looked around he understood the immediate peril that they were in. Furious red faces were jammed up against the broken spaces where window glass had been. Bullets penetrated the sod walls in every direction and at every angle. Besides Bat and himself, perhaps nine or ten other men were also inside the saloon—Billy Dixon was among them—and everyone had his handgun out, shooting back through the windows and walls as fast as he could pull the trigger. To stop shooting meant death. Summoning desperation if not courage, McLendon drew his Colt and starting firing, too, not aiming at any Indian in particular, just shooting at all the movement outside the broken windows. Like the other defenders, he tried to pull overturned chairs in front of himself as partial cover. Then he saw a table on its side and huddled behind it. He was certain that any moment one of the bullets tearing into the saloon would hit him but somehow none did. When the hammer of his Colt clicked on a spent cartridge, he reloaded. He had some shells in his pockets. His hand trembled as he tried to insert the fresh ammunition.
A shrill sound rose above the shouts and gunfire, and someone said wonderingly, “Ain’t that a bugle? Is the Army here?” but the notes were weird and jangled. “Who’s blowing a goddamn bugle?” the same man asked again, and McLendon thought, It’s an Indian painted black, but didn’t say it out loud because he was concentrating so hard on reloading.
McLendon was just ready to resume firing when the first bullets began slamming into the saloon from above. “They’re on the goddamn roof!” someone shouted; McLendon looked and it was Bermuda Carlyle, with Carlyle and Billy and Bat at least some of the best fighters were in the saloon with him, thank God. Caught completely by surprise, for a few moments everyone crouched and flinched, and then Billy Dixon said, “Shee-yit,” drawing out the cussword, pointed his gun at the roof, and fired right up through it. “They can shoot down, we can shoot up,” Billy urged, and they did, all of them at first, but then that left the Indians on the ground unaccounted for and their shooting intensified. Some of the white men in the saloon shot through the walls again.
The saloon fogged with gunsmoke and stank of sweat and fear. The stench was so foul that McLendon wondered if he’d pissed himself. When he reloaded a second time he took a moment to check his pants and felt a brief twinge of pride because they were dry.
After what seemed like an eternity it occurred to McLendon that the Indian assault was slackening. There was no more shooting down through the roof; they’d apparently driven off those attackers with their own gunfire. Billy, Carlyle, Bat, and a few others—Jim McKinley and Frenchy, McLendon saw—began using rifle barrels to poke small portholes through the sod walls. This gave them wider angles of fire, and now they picked out individual targets. Watching them, McLendon felt unabashed admiration. He’d always known they were wise in the ways of the frontier, but he had never realized how brave these hunters and their crewmen were. In this deadliest of situations, they kept their wits about them and found the most effective ways to fight back. McLendon couldn’t credit himself with anything similar. He still wielded his Colt, he fired some shots, but he didn’t move from his spot behind the table in the middle of the saloon floor. It just seemed safer there.
There came almost a complete lull, just some scattered shots popping on either side of the saloon.
“Wonder what condition the others are in,” Bat said. Though the Rath store was to the south of the saloon and the Myers and Leonard store and its corral to the north, because of the window placement it was impossible to look directly at either of the buildings.
“There are some still alive in each; you can tell by the way the Indians have been charging,” Jim Hanrahan said. McLendon hadn’t previously noticed him, but of course he was in the saloon. So were several of his employees—Oscar Shepherd, Hiram Watson, Mike Welsh. Billy Ogg was there too. “Jesus, look at the damage to my property.”
Broken glass from windows and bottles covered the saloon floor. The chairs being used as extra cover were scored by bullets. McLendon looked at the table protecting him and saw several bullet holes. He thought that passing through the sod walls must have cost the bullets some velocity. Otherwise they would have smashed through the table and into his body.
“Anybody wounded?” Billy Dixon asked. “By that I mean disabling hurts, of course, not scratches.” Everyone had some cuts from flying glass and splinters, but nothing more. “All right, then,” Billy said. “Let’s assess remaining ammunition.”
“Are the Indians gone?” McLendon asked hopefully.
“Far from it,” Jim McKinley said. “In fact, here they come again.” With shrieks of fury, the Indians attacked.
The second assault frightened McLendon more than the first, because this time he immediately understood what was happening. A howling hoard descended on the saloon, and once again the defenders fired through the window openings and walls and their makeshift portholes. McLendon was more aware of individual moments than an overall fight. An Indian face covered with bright blue paint appeared momentarily at a window, and McLendon simultaneously fired and wondered, How do they make that color? He must have missed his shot, because moments later the same blue visage appeared again. Then the trigger guard on McLendon’s Peacemaker seemed loose, and he wondered if he had his screwdriver in his pocket but didn’t have time to look, let alone pause and fix it. If the trigger guard fell off his gun, he hoped the weapon would still fire. For his next few shots he was concerned about that, but the guard stayed on and then he forgot about it. At one point Bat Masterson hollered, “Use your rifle, C.M.—more stopping power!” but when McLendon looked in the corner where he’d left his Winchester so many hours ago, he saw that the stock had been smashed and the weapon was useless.
Hiram Watson crouched near one window, shooting his Colt into the surging mass of copper-colored bodies outside, and just as he emptied the handgun a long Indian arm poked through the window opening, and at the end of that arm was a pistol, and the pistol began spraying shots wildly into the saloon. Frenchy was grazed by one of the shots; he moaned a little, and McLendon surprised himself by leaping forward and aiming his Peacemaker just above the invading shoulder where he knew the Indian’s head had to be. He pulled the trigger and besides the bang of his shot he heard an odd sound like the pop of a child’s balloon. Something wet flew onto his face and as he wiped at it with his sleeve he was yanked down by Bermuda Carlyle. When he looked at what he’d wiped off, he was puzzled.
“What’s that mixed with the blood?” he asked, and Carlyle told him that some of the savage’s brains had splashed on him.
Shortly after that, the shooting stopped again. Billy Dixon, taking a chance and peering out a window opening, said it looked like the Indians were backing off in the direction of the creek.
“They’ll just be catching their breaths, is all,” Billy said. “There are too many for them to quit. They came to wipe us out, and this early setback won’t change their minds.”
“We’d best prepare for more,” Hanrahan agreed. “I believe I see a canteen that went unpunctured, so let’s each take a sip of water.” They passed the canteen around. McLendon thought the lukewarm water tasted better than the coldest beer he’d ever had.
They gradually became aware of a constant keening from the Rath store off to their right. “Mrs. Olds, I don’t doubt,” Hanrahan said. “You know, I worry most about the ones over there. We’re decent fighters here in the saloon, and some other good men must be defending over at Myers and Leonard. But the Rath bunch will mostly be shopkeepers with little if any fighting skill. Dixon, can you see anything of the Indians just now?”
Billy cautiously craned his neck by the biggest window opening, w
hich faced east. The Indians had moved back to the northeast. “It’s hard to tell, but I think they’re gathered and palavering,” he said. “I’ve never seen so many savages together at one time. And a curious thing—there’s Co-manch, a bunch of them, but also Cheyenne, and damned if I didn’t think I saw some Kioway.”
“A united Indian army,” Carlyle said. “Any white man’s worst nightmare come true, and why in hell did it have to be on us?”
“Keep a sharp eye out for them, Billy,” Hanrahan said, and he cracked open the door. “Hello, Rath and Myers!” he shouted. “Can you hear me? What’s your condition?”
Almost immediately, there was response from the north. “Ten of us at Myers, all still fit to fight.”
“Mike McCabe,” Billy Dixon said. “He’s a cool man in a fight. Nothing from Rath?”
“Nothing beyond that damn woman screeching, but I’ll try again,” Hanrahan said. He called, “Rath store, can anyone hear me?”
Jim Langston, his voice reedy with fear, called back, “Just five men and Mrs. Olds. Someone come help us—we can’t hold them off again.”
“Sounds like they’re done for,” Frenchy sorrowfully. “Bad for them and for us too. They get overrun, the Indians will turn more of their attention to this saloon.”
“I think we should reinforce them,” Billy Dixon said. “I’ll try to get over there; maybe one more could come with me?”
McLendon couldn’t imagine continuing the fight without Billy. “I’ll go.”
“All right, then, get your gun and we’ll— Hellfire, here they come back at us.”
This time the Indians altered their assault. Instead of an all-out charge, they came up cautiously, using the corral and stalls of Myers and Leonard’s and the towering hide ricks behind the Rath store as cover. Though less immediately terrifying, it caused the white defenders considerable frustration. Hampered by the limited sight angles of the windows and self-made shooting portholes, it was impossible for them to see much until the attackers were almost on them. All they could do was wait nervously until a target presented itself and then try to shoot fast and accurately before the Indian could conceal himself again. McLendon mostly kept himself ducked below a window opening. When he tried cautiously peeping out, he found himself flinching involuntarily, waiting for a bullet to smash between his eyes. This weakness shamed him—none of the others seemed to flinch. Once Bat Masterson glanced over, saw his reluctance to stand steady, and said, “C.M., if a bullet’s going to find you, it will. Ain’t nothing you can do about that. Get to sending back some shots of your own, make them the ones to feel shaky.” McLendon tried. When he saw any Indian movement he fired at it, though he was certain he didn’t hit anything besides the ground or corral posts. The shift in Indian tactics brought a different kind of tension to the fight. Because there were stretches of near inactivity with no targets to shoot at, the men in the saloon had more time to think about the dire situation in which they found themselves. Rough, tough Bermuda Carlyle, who’d openly mocked church attenders back in Dodge, blurted, “Lord Jesus, preserve us from the heathens.” Several of the others muttered, “Amen.”
The discordant bugle blats continued. At one point Mike Welsh said, “Shit, I see the damn bugler, and it’s a black man, a big fat one.”
“What’s a black bugler doing with the Indians?” Billy Ogg asked.
“It must be one of those so-called buffalo soldiers, an Army deserter,” Hanrahan said. “I’ve heard of such. They get sick of the discipline, so they run off and throw in with the Indians. Goddamn traitor is what the man is. Whatever else we do, let’s kill that one. At least it’ll end that hateful noise he’s making.”
McLendon thought again about telling them that it wasn’t a Negro, just an Indian painted black, but his throat was dry and it didn’t seem worth the effort. Thinking of that Indian with his bugle, he next remembered how Isaac and Shorty had died. He felt badly about Isaac.
A few minutes later Frenchy, peering out a front window, said, “I see the black man again; he and some others are at the Scheidler wagon.” Billy Dixon moved over to take a look, and so did McLendon. The Indians had turned the wagon on its side so that they could take shelter behind its raised bed. Several of the savages, including the stout one painted black, could be periodically glimpsed behind it, gorging themselves on the food supplies that had spilled down—bacon and bread and dried fruit.
“I do hate to see them in such delight,” Frenchy muttered. “But it’s, what, a hundred yards or more and they’re mostly under cover. Billy, what do you think?”
Billy looked toward the other side of the saloon, where Oscar Shepherd, Hanrahan’s bartender, was posted at another window. “Oscar, is that a big Sharps you’ve got there?” When Shepherd said it was, Billy asked, “Would you swap it for a lighter weapon? I believe my .44 caliber would do you fine, and if I had that Big Fifty, I might make use of the increased range and power.”
“You’re the best shot among us, Billy,” Shepherd agreed, and they exchanged rifles.
“Ahh, a Big Fifty,” Billy cooed, stroking the barrel of the heavy rifle before lifting it to his shoulder. “Frenchy, C.M., step back a pace. I got to lean out and get the angle right.” Some shots drove Billy back; bits of displaced sod sprayed through the air. “Damn,” Billy said. “Lay down some cover fire, boys,” and Frenchy and McLendon did. As soon as they paused, Billy popped his head and shoulders out the window, swung the Big Fifty into shooting position, aimed, and fired. He jerked back inside and grinned. “There’s one less bugler now.”
“You got him?” McLendon asked.
“I drove the shot right through that wagon bed. Big Fifties have some wallop. I doubt we’ll hear that bugle again.” They didn’t.
What they did hear almost immediately afterward were the pitiful sounds of animals in death throes—higher-pitched from horses and mules, lower but still agonized from oxen.
“They’re killing all the stock in the corral and stalls,” McKinley said. “Why would they do that? I thought Indians liked to steal horses, take them for their own use.”
“It means they’re settling in for the long term,” Bermuda Carlyle said grimly. “They’re making sure none of us can steal away on a mount and ride for help.”
“I hope those left in Myers and Leonard can restrain themselves,” Billy said. “Some of them have powerful attachment to their animals, I know.” The words were hardly out of his mouth when there was shouting from that direction, a volley of heavy fire from the Indians, and a man’s loud screams, which ceased almost instantly.
“Someone acted foolishly and got cut down,” Billy said. “These Indians are so damn smart. God knows what they’re going to try next.”
There was another lull, a longer one this time. “I need to piss so bad,” Billy Ogg complained, and as soon as he said it, McLendon’s bladder throbbed too. Though he was still convinced he was about to die, probably in some way terrible beyond his current imagination, the urge to pee was suddenly paramount.
“I suspect we all need to go,” Hanrahan said. “Be sure to take turns, boys, we need to keep lookout. They’ll be back on us anytime.” He glanced around the wreckage of his saloon, then rummaged behind some bullet-riddled barrels. Hanrahan came up with some mostly empty, unbroken whiskey bottles and said, “Pee in these, and then we can throw ’em out the windows. If you just piss on the floor, it’ll stink in here even worse.” Everyone cracked nervous jokes about what a terrible thing to do to liquor, but McLendon noticed that nobody drank any of the whiskey dregs before relieving themselves in the bottles. If hide men don’t drink, he thought, they must believe themselves in the utmost peril. When they were done, they tossed the sloshing bottles out the broken windows and settled back to prepare for the next assault.
It came sometime around noon, when war whoops and gunshots announced that the Indians had resumed the fight. This time, clumps of attacker
s concentrated fire on the saloon and two stores from about a hundred yards away while other groups staying low to the ground wormed their way close. It was an effective tactic. The cacophony of the constant barrage mixed sharp reports from repeater rifles, deep booms of shotguns, and even the belches of ancient muzzle-loaders. The Indian arsenal apparently included every type of gun. “I can’t see them!” Jim McKinley shouted. “The bastards are invisible.”
“Watch the tops of the bushes and the high grass,” Billy Dixon said. “There’s breeze coming from the west—if anything waves in another direction, it’s because of an Indian for sure.” McLendon had lost any sense of direction, so he had no idea of which way west might be. He watched Billy, and when Dixon fired, McLendon shot in the same direction.
Once again some Indians got near enough to the sod buildings to fire through the saloon windows point-blank. The defenders returned fire and perhaps once in twenty shots were rewarded with screams of pain. When they had a chance to glance out, they saw with great satisfaction that more Indian bodies lay strewn about. These fallen attackers lay still and were, apparently, dead. The Indians were still bearing away their wounded. Enough were still on the offensive to pound on the barred wooden door and fire through the sod walls. With bullets whizzing past his head and body and legs, McLendon would have screamed in abject terror if he could have summoned the breath, but he couldn’t. Panting with fear, he kept firing his pistol and reloading because there was nothing else he could think of to do. In a terrible moment of clarity, he thought for the first time that the others in the saloon were showing more outward signs of fear, too; even Billy Dixon seemed to fumble with cartridges as he reloaded the Sharps Big Fifty. The attackers were very close to overrunning the saloon.
