‘I was raised by missionaries. I went to one of their schools.’
The man Morton knew as Stormcloud was standing by the fire, talking quietly to a few other warriors. When he caught sight of Morton, he broke off his conversation and came over at once.
‘More-ton,’ he said. ‘More-ton.’
Jack Morton bowed, as though he had been introduced to an officer or something.
‘It’s good to see you again, Stormcloud,’ he said.
The Indian spoke at some length, looking into Morton’s eyes as he did so. When he had finished, the man who was acting as translator spoke.
‘Stormcloud says that since you rescued his daughter, she is yours as much as his,’ he told Morton. ‘He says that you are responsible for her as well. That is the Comanche way. If you save somebody’s life, then it is like . . . I think the word is ‘adopting’ that person. You understand?’
‘I understand well enough. Is there any way that I can tell Stormcloud that I don’t see the matter from the same angle, without causing terrible offence?’
‘No.’
The meal was pleasant enough and not the ordeal that Morton had feared. The men all sat at their ease on the ground and passed platters of baked meats around, with great quantities of cornpone. There was also some kind of beer, which Morton didn’t really take to but thought that it might have been discourteous to decline. He was, in fact, becoming more relaxed and cheerful than he expected, until a lone figure approached the fire and spoke harshly, while staring fixedly at Moreton. In a low voice, almost a whisper, the man who was interpreting what was said for Morton, said: ‘This man is Kiowa. He says he is looking for a white man who did a very bad thing to his mother.’
‘His name wouldn’t be Lone Wolf, I suppose?’ Morton replied, also in a whisper.
The interpreter shot him a penetrating glance.
‘I see you are the one he is seeking,’ he said.
Stormcloud got to his feet and began talking. He spoke slowly at first, becoming more eloquent as he continued. He was not angry, but used a quiet, reasonable tone. When he had finished, the man at Morton’s side said: ‘Stormcloud has told this Kiowa chief that there is no white man here. He says that his brother is here, the blood relative of his only daughter and that if anybody touches a member of his family, then Stormcloud will use his whole clan to defend that person.’
Lone Wolf spoke a few more words, then turned on his heel and walked back into the shadows, giving Morton a venomous look as he left. Morton asked what the Kiowa’s parting words had been and was told that they were simply an expression of acceptance of the state of affairs.
‘So you think that will be the end of it?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said the Indian, ‘not if I know Lone Wolf. He wants your scalp hanging from his belt.’
The feast carried on after Lone Wolf left and, as far as Morton was able to see, nobody had been at all put out by the interruption. He ventured to ask about this and received confirmation that, as he had suspected, it was not uncommon for some challenge or insult to be delivered at such events as this.
‘Some say that it is not a true feast unless a man is slain during it,’ explained the Indian. ‘Nobody here is surprised to see a Kiowa trying to begin a blood feud.’
‘’Long as it’s not cast a dampener on this meal.’
‘They’ve forgotten it already. Lone Wolf is boastful. He has no friends here.’
Morton calculated that it must have been long after midnight when the party broke up. Before he left Stormcloud embraced him and declared again publicly that he owed a great debt to Morton. Then his guide went with him to collect Robert.
The baby was sound asleep in one of the wickiups. Morton picked the child up gently and, after bidding farewell to the man who had sat at his side throughout the evening, he made his way back to the comanchero encampment. A little before he reached it, a figure emerged from the shadows and he saw in the faint light from the stars that it was none other than Lone Wolf, wanting, presumably, his blood.
The two men stood facing each other for a few seconds, before Morton spoke.
‘I don’t know if you understand English or not,’ he said. ‘You feel you’ve cause to demand satisfaction from me. There’s something to be said on both sides there, but I’ll warrant you’re in no mood to debate the rights and wrongs of the thing now. You want my blood.’
The other man said nothing, just standing ready and easy.
‘This poor child has no part in this,’ Morton continued. ‘Come now with me to my van and let me set him comfortable and then we’ll fight if you wish. Though God knows, it’s not my wish.’
Not knowing if the man would suddenly leap at him and cut his throat, Morton walked on towards where he had concealed his van.
He was aware of the Indian walking after him. Since there was no move to attack him at once Morton was hopeful that he would at least be able to tuck the child up before facing this man in deadly combat. That prospect was not an enticing one. He was a dab hand with firearms and swords, but close-quarter fighting was not really his speciality.
A fire was burning a little way from the van and around it sat Emile Robarts and four or five other men. Robarts called out to him: ‘Hey, Morton! How’d your famous banquet turn out in the end? Not too formal for you?’
‘It went well enough, thanks.’
‘Who’s your friend there?’
‘Fellow called Lone Wolf. He feels he requires satisfaction of me. But he was decent enough to let me tuck this little fellow up safe for the night first.’
Robarts got to his feet and drew his pistol, cocking it as he did so.
‘Robarts, no!’ Morton said urgently. ‘I wouldn’t have this man feel as though I’d led him into a trap. He was good enough to give me leave to put the baby to bed before we set to. I won’t have him interfered with since he’s played fair. He wants to fight me, we’ll fight. Let him be.’
‘We’ll make sure there’s no treachery,’ said Robarts grimly, ‘if you’re determined on this.’
‘I’m not so determined myself, but this man seems to be.’
Lone Wolf stood perfectly still and at his ease as Morton pulled some of the brushwood aside and clambered into the back of his van. He put the sleeping child down and wrapped him carefully in the blanket. Then he jumped lightly down.
‘Well my friend, I’m ready when you are,’ he said to the waiting Indian. ‘What’s it to be, hands or knives?’
Robarts and the others had left the fire and wandered up to see how this was going to be done. When Lone Wolf drew a knife from the sheath at his belt, Robarts stepped forward and offered Morton the Bowie knife that he always carried himself.
‘You sure you don’t want us to settle this another way?’ he said quietly as he handed it to Morton.
‘It’s kind of you to offer, but no,’ replied Morton. ‘I reckon he deserves a chance to show me what he thinks.’
Then there was no time for any more talking, because the man who wished to take Morton’s life stood waiting, his knife in his hand. With great reluctance Jack Morton turned to face him. The comancheros retreated to give them room and the two men began circling each other warily, looking for an opening.
This was not the first knife fight that Morton had been in, but the others had been more casual, less deadly affairs, in which the aim really had been to shed a little blood in order that honour was satisfied. Once a wound had been made an affair had ended and the men concerned had shaken hands.
This was another thing entirely and Morton knew the difference. Lone Wolf’s whole standing was at stake here, because if some stranger could march through the land, tie up his mother and gag her, then where was the chief’s authority? Doubtless, he was genuinely annoyed with the white man for the affront offered to his mother’s dignity, but there was far more riding on the outcome of this little struggle than that alone.
If a chief could not maintain order in his territory and protect his women,
what sort of leader was he, anyway? Unless Lone Wolf succeeded in killing him Morton guessed that that particular clan of Kiowa would probably be looking for a new leader before long.
Then Lone Wolf lunged at Morton with his knife and the life or death battle had begun.
Chapter 9
The man he was fighting was as muscular, swift and lithe as a mountain lion. Morton was keenly aware that if their contest went on for too long he himself was likely to be the loser. He lacked the Indian’s stamina and speed, for one thing, to say nothing of the fact that it had been several years since he had even held a knife for any purpose other than cutting up the food on his plate.
Lone Wolf, on the other hand, moved as though the cruel steel blade was an extension of his arm. With a sinking feeling of dread, Jack Morton knew that it would take a miracle to save him from the man who was so determined to shed his blood and take his life.
After the first lunge, which Morton had dodged adroitly enough, Lone Wolf contented himself with moving round his adversary with his knife held out before him. In books, it is always a simple enough matter to scoop up a handful of sand and throw it in the other fellow’s face, so blinding him and giving you the opportunity to move in for the kill.
In real life though, bend down and start fooling around like that, and you are liable to find that the man you’re fighting has leaped forward and cut your throat. The whole practical aim of knife fighting is never once to let your attention wander from the knife being wielded a few short feet away.
One key factor in a knife fight is to watch your opponent’s eyes, so as to gauge what he might be about to do next. In the darkness, illuminated only by the flickering light from the fire, this was all but impossible: both men were compelled to guess what the other was about. As they circled round each other, looking for some slight advantage, Morton knew that that the lazy and self-indulgent lifestyle that he had pursued for the last two or three years had not been the best preparation for deadly combat of this sort.
When the Indian sprang the move came as a complete surprise to Morton. He jumped back quickly, but his foot caught on a rock and he went sprawling on his back. As if that were not bad enough, the Bowie knife that Robarts had loaned him flew from his hand as went down heavily. Lone Wolf saw this and his exultation was plain, even in the near-darkness. He moved forward for the kill and as far as Jack Morton could tell, there wasn’t a damned thing to stop him.
Yet it was at that precise moment that Lone Wolf, Kiowa chief and undefeated warrior of any number of single combats and pitched battles, died instantly. All that Morton knew was that there was a blinding flash and a mighty roar, as though a bolt of lightning had struck close at hand. Then he saw his erstwhile enemy flying through the air and being dashed on to the rocky face of the canyon. The first explosion was followed almost instantly by another, further away. Morton understood what was going on.
‘General Sheridan’s calling cards!’ he muttered under his breath.
He got shakily to his feet. Any man who has resigned himself to dying in the very next second, cannot help but be shaken and awestruck by the experience. One moment he had been lying there, waiting for Lone Wolf to cut his throat; now the Indian had been smashed to pieces and he, Jack Morton, was standing here alive.
‘Bastard’s using canister,’ he muttered to himself, ‘Against a civilian encampment too, from the look of it. Well, what d’you expect of the Yankee army?’
Morton’s eyes fell upon the shattered remnants of the comancheros who had been spectators to his late duel. The canister shot must, by a singular stroke of ill fortune, have landed right among them. Every man Jack of them was dead. Only his lying prone like that had saved his life. All seven of the men who had been standing near to him had been killed instantly.
Again, in the distance, Morton heard another roar, as Sheridan’s artillery let fly another ranging shot. At a guess, once those boys had the correct range they would saturate this whole area with alternating round-shot and canister, which would be none too healthy either for him or for Robert. He needed to take that baby and get out of there as soon as could be.
When he went to the van, however, Morton discovered that a stray piece of metal from the shell had scythed through one of the wheels, rendering it unfit for use. Inside, Robert had been woken up by the crash of the explosion and was crying softly. Morton gave him a dried crust to chew on and then picked up the bag containing food and diapers. He didn’t see that he would be able to carry much else. At the last minute, he popped his pistol into the bag as well, but decided to leave the rifle behind.
From a cunning hiding place built into the side of the vehicle he removed some gold coins, which amounted to his savings since his snake oil business had begun. Just over $600 might not be a fortune, but it would perhaps set him up in another town. It was a shame to abandon all the snake oil and, indeed the van itself, but there was little enough to be done about it.
Morton jumped down from the back of the van and made his way to where the comancheros kept their horses and tack. It seemed a scurvy trick to play on them but, when all was said and done, the owners were now dead and unlikely to be needing either saddles or horses again, at least not in this world.
The cannon fire was steady now and more accurately targeted. The aim was probably to exterminate the Comanche village and do away with every man, woman and child living there. It had taken the army some years to get round to this corner of the country, but now that they had they would be expecting to do a thorough job.
He had nearly reached the little corral when a rider loomed up from the darkness. In the normal way of things, Morton would perhaps have heard the beat of hoofs as it approached but, with the constant cannonade, the noise had been masked. Morton’s hand snaked into the bag he was carrying, fumbling for his gun.
Then he realized that he knew this man and that he was very far from being an enemy. It was Stormcloud. Not only Stormcloud; his little daughter was perched in front of her father, looking terrified out of her senses.
‘I didn’t hear you coming there,’ Morton told the rider. ‘You fleeing as well, hey?’
Stormcloud’s English was about as rudimentary as could be, but it was sufficient for him to get across to Morton that fleeing was the last thing on his mind.
‘I fight. You, child, go,’ he said.
‘Yes, that’s right. I’m taking this child out of here.’
‘No,’ said Stormcloud sharply. ‘Child.’ Here he lifted his daughter from where she sat in front of him and said again, ‘Child go.’
‘You want me to take your child? Is that what you’re saying?’ There was another rumble of artillery, like the thunder of a storm when it is slowly drawing nearer. ‘I can’t do that. I can’t take your child away.’
It was hard to know how much of this the Indian understood, but when he spoke again, there was a distinct note of pleading in his voice.
‘More-ton. More-ton,’ he said. ‘I fight. You, child go now.’
Under his breath Jack Morton muttered something to the effect that this was an unlooked for hindrance, but he nevertheless went over to the rider and said: ‘Yes, I’ll take the child. Although Lord knows what will be the consequence of this folly!’
The words were no sooner out of his mouth than Stormcloud lifted up his daughter and handed her down to Morton.
‘Fight now,’ he said. Next moment, he had spurred on his horse and vanished into the night, leaving Jack Morton with a baby in his arms and a little girl who could be no more than four years of age standing sobbing by his side.
‘I don’t know if you understand me or not,’ Morton told the girl, ‘but we need to be moving pretty sharpish here. Take my hand now and we’ll get one of those horses tacked up and ready to get out of here.’ In a lower voice, he said, more to himself than to the child: ‘And as for what will happen to us after that, your guess is as good as mine.’
When they got to the corral Morton gestured that the girl should sit on the
ground. He set down his bag and then handed Robert to her, saying: ‘Hold the baby for me, will you?’
While he was tacking up one of the horses, which was no easy task in the dark with the crash of artillery nearby, Morton tried to fathom out the best course of action. In addition to the booming of the cannons, he could also hear the crackle of rifle fire, along with pistol shots. It sounded as though General Sheridan and his men weren’t having it all their own way during the assault on the Palo Duro canyons. The difficulty lay now in leaving the field of battle. If he knew anything at all about such actions, the soldiers now would be fired up to bloodshed. They would most probably shoot out of hand anybody they came across. A rider heading towards their lines would not have much of a chance. Hadn’t he seen a track or something of the kind winding up into the hills, when Robarts had brought him here? The question was, could he find it now, without good light and with a battle raging around him? There was only one way to find out.
‘Can you sit on that horse, if I lead it along?’ asked Morton of the little girl, who looked at him blankly. He squatted down beside her and laid his hand upon her head.
‘Listen honey,’ he said patiently, ‘there’s little time to lose. We need to be digging up and leaving this place right now. I’m going to set you on horseback and hope that you’ll be able to hang on to the reins without falling off.’ Morton smiled at the child and she ventured a timid little half-smile in return. He wondered if she remembered him and understood that it was he who had saved her life when she was drowning.
Gently, he lifted the baby from her arms and set him on the ground, well clear of the horse’s hoofs. Then he lifted up the little girl and placed her on the saddle, putting her hands on the pommel.
‘There now,’ he said. ‘Just you hang on to the saddle and happen we’ll do well enough.’
As the little group made its way to where Morton thought that he could remember some sort of path or track, the noise grew in intensity. He could see shadowy figures running about some way from them and the whole scene was illuminated from time to time by flashes of vivid light from the explosions of canister shot. These threw the combatants into view, frozen for an instant, like figures in a tableau or diorama.
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