by Doug Thorne
Eyes half-closed, Isatai was murmuring ancient invocations in a monotone, the words of which had been passed down to him by his grandfather. The sound of it filled the trotting warriors with confidence and anticipation, as they too kept watch on the distant horizon.
Battle was coming, and with it the chance for honour, glory and revenge. But only Quanah seemed aware that there was also the chance for death – maybe death for many of them.
Not that he was scared for himself. But he feared for the loss of his men, for the heartache and hardship it would bring to their families. Victory over the whites would be cold comfort indeed to a grieving squaw and her now-fatherless children.
However, his mind was set. Nothing would stop the violence to come this day. And it was just possible that the gods would protect them, as Isatai had foretold: that against all the odds Isatai himself really was speaking with a straight tongue.
No more than two or three hill slopes separated them from Adobe Walls when Quanah finally signalled a halt. Wordlessly, his men dismounted and led their ponies the rest of the way, moving softer than ever now, determined that the whites should not learn of their presence until the last possible moment.
Quanah’s heart began to beat even faster. His people had burned Adobe Walls down once before. He saw now that he should never have allowed the whites to come back and establish such a firm foothold in this Llano Estacado country again.
An excited mutter ran through his men. Ahead lay the ghostly silhouette of the place they had come to destroy, a quiet, dark series of half-fallen walls and squat, stout buildings covered in shadow.
Turning, Quanah told his men to make ready. This at last was the hour when they lived or died, won or lost. The hour when white man and red would fight to the death in the battle for Adobe Walls.
EIGHT
Sometime around two in the morning a sudden, dry cracking sound ripped through the silence. In the stillness of the night it sounded even louder than it actually was.
Already jumpy, the occupants of Adobe Walls came awake within seconds, Hennessy no exception. Grabbing the Winchester he’d left under his bunk, he came up out of his blankets and ran outside, fully-clothed. In the chill moonlight he saw men in various stages of undress racing southeast from the hide yard and followed them, expecting the worst. The Newfoundland dog was among them somewhere, yapping his fool head off.
About halfway to Jimmy Hanrahan’s saloon they met a handful of hide men coming from the opposite direction. Someone – Hennessy thought it was Isaac Scheidler – called urgently, ‘Vat iss it, vat’s wrong?’
California Joe Milner said, ‘Damn’ ridgepole in Jimmy’s saloon snapped. Like to’ve brought the roof down, but I think we got it.’
A couple of men near Hennessy swore at the false alarm, a couple more sagged in relief, but yet another suggested they go on to Hanrahan’s, finish roping the ridgepole back together and have a drink or two while they were at it. The idea met with a fair deal of approval.
‘I’m of a different mind,’ said Masterson, stopping them all in their tracks. ‘You ask me, I say we’d do better to keep clear heads.’
Watching him, Hennessy thought, Well, damn me if the kid isn’t starting to show sense at last.
Jacob Scheidler, a big man with a long, unruly brown beard, was inclined to agree. ‘Ja. I sleep vile I get the chance, I think.’ And together with the dog, he and his brother turned and headed back towards their wagon.
Billy Dixon glanced at Mike Welch. ‘What do you reckon?’ he asked quietly.
Mike shrugged. ‘Just watch how much you fellers imbibe, you hear me?’
Satisfied with the response, the hunters began to disperse, some to head for the saloon, others – including Billy, Mike and Bermuda Carlisle – to scare up some coffee at Charlie Rath’s store. Mike had only gone a few yards, however, when he realized that the recent commotion had disturbed the horses grazing beyond the larger of the two hide yards. Hearing the sounds they made milling uneasily, he peered around until he spotted a lean young man by the name of Billy Ogg. ‘Best you go fetch them nags in off the meadow, Billy,’ he said.
Ogg gave a brief salute. ‘Ayuh. I’ll see to it.’
He turned and trotted off into the darkness.
Hennessy himself was about to head back to the barracks when he noticed William Olds and his wife standing a few yards away. In his haste, Olds had clawed on a pair of black pants and thumbed the suspenders up over a creased undershirt. His wife was almost lost in a voluminous dressing-gown that was buttoned to the throat. She was clutching her man’s arm, the eyes in her pale, fleshy face darting fearfully at every shadow. Neither one seemed to know what to do for the best, and nor could Hennessy blame them, for trouble wasn’t just coming any more, it was almost here: he could feel it.
Olds, noticing him, offered a distracted nod, then made to guide his wife back to their quarters behind the eatery. They were an amiable, devoted couple, and Hennessy had liked them from the start. On impulse he called Olds’s name, and the heavy-set man stopped and came over to him, a frown on his big, pleasant face.
‘Yes, Mr Hennessy?’
Hennessy was momentarily lost for words. Then he said awkwardly, ‘If there’s trouble tomorrow … well, you and your wife, you just find yourselves a safe place and keep your heads down. Rest of us’ll do all the fighting.’
Olds shook his head. ‘Oh, I couldn’t allow that, Mr Hennessy. Reckon I’ll stand my ground, same as you.’
‘And get yourself killed in the process?’
‘Not if I can help it, sir, no.’
Hennessy sighed. ‘When was the last time you used a weapon, Olds?’
‘It’s been a while, I grant you.’
‘Well, me and the rest of these men use ’em every day, so leave the fighting to us. Besides,’ and here his eyes flickered briefly toward Mrs Olds, who was watching them curiously from a distance of maybe five yards, ‘you’ve got responsibilities.’
Olds nodded again. ‘That I have. She’s all I got, an’ all I’ve ever wanted. An’ that’s why I reckon I’ll do everything in my power to protect her.’
Hennessy looked him straight in the eye and saw that there’d be no arguing with him. ‘Well, watch yourself, then,’ he counselled softly. ‘When it starts, don’t lose your head or get impatient. Just find good cover, take your time and pick your targets.’
‘I’ll do that, don’t fret.’
As Olds went back to his wife, Hennessy turned to watch the men making their way towards the saloon, where lamplight was now filling the greasy tarpaper windows. Was it likely they’d heed Big Mike’s words and watch how much they drank this night? He didn’t think so.
He brought the Winchester up across his shoulder and was just about to continue on his way towards the barracks when he sensed a sudden rush of movement off to his left.
A split second later Billy Ogg came racing back out of the darkness.
‘Indians!’ he yelled. ‘Indians! They’re here!’
They came as if out of nowhere, hundreds upon hundreds of warriors strung out in a series of loose, screaming ranks. Quanah was in the lead, Isatai right beside him.
Seeing Isatai in so prominent a position made Quanah wonder fleetingly if perhaps he had misjudged the holy man after all. But then Isatai was forgotten as he heeled his horse on through the hated stockade, and a white man appeared in his path.
Quanah saw his bloodless, fear-slack face and wide, startled eyes with tremendous clarity. Then he hurled his lance overarm, and the projectile smashed through the man’s sternum and threw him backwards.
Second to die was a hunter named Tyler. The sudden, terrifying racket of the attacking Indians had frozen him in his tracks, but by the time he snapped out of it and broke into a run, it was too late. A .44 bullet slammed through his left lung. An arrow skewered his neck and another bullet whacked him in the chest. He went down in a heap.
Hennessy saw it happen from a distance of less than twenty yards, s
wung the Winchester down off his shoulder, braced the weapon against his hip and loosed off a shot that caught a charging Kiowa in the shoulder and punched him back off his mount.
Another Indian galloped in, screaming for all he was worth. He tried to cave Hennessy’s head in with a hatchet but missed and went on past. Hennessy turned, tracked him, waited a moment, then fired again. The slug ripped a fist-sized hole out of the Comanche’s spine and flung him forward, over his horse’s neck.
As the Indians continued to swarm between the walls and buildings, some of them throwing flaming torches at anything that might catch fire, the Scheidler brothers, Isaac and Jacob, leapt from their wagon with the Newfoundland going crazy around their feet.
Cursing in German, Isaac Scheidler raised his Henry .45/.70 and shot a Kiowa off his horse. He was reloading when he heard his brother, somewhere off to his left, yell a warning.
Isaac turned just as a mounted Cheyenne ran him through with a long, feathered lance. The force of the impact was such that it rammed the weapon straight through his stomach and out of his back. The big German went stiff as a board, then collapsed.
Incensed, the Newfoundland dog went blurring after the Cheyenne and with one muscular bound managed to grab the Indian by his ankle. The Cheyenne tried to kick him loose, lost his balance instead and tumbled from the saddle. By the time he regained his feet and made a grab for the hatchet at his waist, the dog was on him again, displaying a savagery it had never shown before. The Cheyenne didn’t last long after that.
With tears streaking his big, jowly face, Jacob Scheidler cocked and fired his Model 1866 Winchester again and again, blowing Indians away to left and right as he half-stumbled, grief-stricken, straight into the charging horde. Only a sudden bristling of arrows in his barrel chest finally stopped him dead.
Bermuda Carlisle, meanwhile, dragged a Richards/ Mason conversion Colt .44 from his belt and threw a couple of wild shots into the darkness, then started running for the saloon. An arrow blurred past his head, clipping his right ear, and the second he clutched at the wound, his palm filled with blood.
He twisted just as a Kiowa in a small fur turban and a grease-stained hide shirt leapt from his horse and came at him in a flat-out run, hatchet in one hand, circular shield in the other and thrust out before him.
Carlisle shot at him and saw dust fly from the shield where the bullet struck, but still the Kiowa kept coming. Then a deeper boom filled the night, and a moment later a ragged hole was torn through the shield, the bullet that made it ripping on into the torso behind it. As the Indian was literally tossed aside, Carlisle spun to face his benefactor.
Bat Masterson paused in the act of reloading his Big Fifty to throw him a grim salute.
As Hennessy levered in another reload, he realized that Olds and his wife, stunned by the appearance of the Indians, were still clutching each other nearby. ‘Come on!’ he bawled. As if waking from a dream. Olds lumbered into motion, dragging his wife along in his wake.
Hennessy made straight for the nearest building, O’Keefe’s smithy, but it wasn’t easy. The Indians were everywhere now, most still mounted but a fair number afoot, yelling their excitement and firing guns and bows almost indiscriminately at anything still moving.
They were almost to their destination when Mrs Olds suddenly cried out. Hennessy spun, saw a Comanche on foot racing at him with a lance thrust forward at waist height. The brave was young, not even twenty, slim but tight-muscled, with long hair worn in otterskin drops and what appeared to be a recently broken nose. In that one passing moment Hennessy had the damnedest feeling that he knew the man, but—
In the same moment it came to him that this was Tahkay, the hot-headed brave who’d fought with him in the arroyo where he’d found Dudley and Williams a short lifetime before; he pulled the trigger and blew a hole in the Indian’s belly. Tahkay went down and kicked for a moment, then died.
Seeing it happen, Mrs Olds came close to collapse. Only her husband, cradling her protectively in his big arms, kept her on her feet. Hennessy hurried around to the woman’s other side, hooked an arm beneath hers and together they half-dragged, half-propelled her on towards O’Keefe’s.
Next moment they were at the smithy’s big double doors, and Hennessy was hammering at the rough wood and yelling to be let inside. One of the doors opened a fraction and Hennessy put his free hand on Olds’s back and shoved the pair of them to safety ahead of him. Oscar Sheppard and a couple of other men were already there. Sheppard quickly dragged the big door shut and dropped the bar in place.
Hennessy sucked in a steadying breath, threw himself down beside one of the smithy’s small, unglazed windows. A brief glance told him he was sharing the place with Tom O’Keefe and Jim Mclnnery in addition to Sheppard. As near as he could see, most of the other hide men had also made it to cover and were split about equally between Hanrahan’s saloon and Charlie Rath’s store. The lights in the saloon had been doused, the windows busted so that the men inside could return fire at their attackers.
A few small fires had taken hold of the parked wagons. The flames spilled, darting amber shadows across the body-littered stockade. As he watched, all but one of the Indians vanished into the darkness, their first attack over. The Comanche who decided to linger was bare-ass naked and daubed with yellow paint. Defiantly he trotted his horse back and forth before the defenders, making all manner of obscene gestures to accompany his bellowed insults.
Hennessy quickly recognized the shaman for what he was, and drew a bead on him. Kill a man like this and you achieved two things – you demoralized the enemy and put some heart back into your own side. But marksman though he was, his aim let him down this time, and once the holy man had finished mocking and jeering, he retreated without so much as a scratch on him.
‘How’re you fellers fixed for weapons and ammunition?’ Hennessy asked when the shaman finally vanished from sight.
Tom O’Keefe said, ‘We’ll manage, just about. It was a good thing that ridgepole broke when it did, otherwise them Indians would’ve had us cold.’
‘You got a spare rifle, Mr O’Keefe?’ asked Olds.
‘Here. Maybe you can help reload for us, Mrs Olds? If things get a little wild?’
The woman, pulling herself together with effort, managed a shaky nod.
Then the lull was over, and the Indians were turning from their initial charge to make a second pass.
Tightening his grip on the Winchester, Hennessy snapped through clenched teeth, ‘Look lively. you men! Here they come again!’
In the store, Billy Dixon was yelling much the same thing.
He’d been lucky to reach Rath’s place in one piece. While he was still racing for cover, a Cheyenne had appeared alongside him and thrown himself from his mount onto Billy’s back. They’d struggled for a while, the Cheyenne doing his best to burn Billy’s face off with the flaming torch he’d been carrying, but somehow Billy had wriggled free, regained his feet and clawed his Remington from leather.
He’d shot the Cheyenne in the side and the sonofabitch had gone down, dropping the flickering torch as he grabbed for the wound. But his fighting blood was still up, and ignoring the pain he’d launched himself at Billy again.
As they crashed to the ground for a second time, the Remington had spun from Billy’s fingers. Next thing he knew, the Cheyenne had him by the throat and was throttling the life out of him, and there didn’t seem to be a whole lot he could do about it.
Then, in casting around for the fallen Remington, his right hand had closed upon the handle of the flaming torch instead, and he’d brought it up and shoved it hard against the side of the Cheyenne’s head. The Cheyenne had lurched sideways, screaming as he tried desperately to smother his burning hair and ear. Billy had stumbled away from him, reclaimed his .44 and put a second bullet in the brave’s belly to finish him for good.
But now the bastards were back, coming fast and throwing everything they had against them. Indians sprang from their mounts to pound against
doors and shuttered windows with rifle-butts and tomahawks. The noise was as deafening as it was unnerving. Others tried to break the doors in by backing their horses into them. In the smithy, Hennessy drew his Colt, shoved it through the window and, turning it to the left, triggered three blind shots. A moment later, the Indian trying that particular manoeuvre squealed and dropped from his horse, clutching his blood-stained chest. The warrior’s wall-eyed mount surged off into the darkness.
‘I’m empty!’ yelled William Olds, turning from his own window and thrusting his borrowed Henry repeater to his wife, who was down on her knees behind him, surrounded by the few boxes of cartridges O’Keefe had managed to scare up.
She took the Henry. It seemed to weigh a ton in her small hands. Doing her best to control the trembling of her fingers, she set about feeding .44-calibre rimfire cartridges into the breech, one, two, three….
She’d known trouble was brewing, of course. No one could say they hadn’t been warned. Not one of them had any right to be here. They were trespassers, lawbreakers, and now they were paying the price. But who had there ever been to turn them out? The army rarely showed itself in these parts. So Charlie Rath and the others – Charlie Myers, Fred Leonard, Tom O’Keefe and Jimmy Hanrahan – had come out here after the hide men, figuring to make good money, and she and her beloved William had come with much the same intention.
But they hadn’t been looking to get rich quick. All they’d wanted was enough of a stake to start an eatery in Dodge, a fine, friendly place where the food was good and the customers appreciated the white iron-stone dishes upon which it was served, and which had been imported all the way from England.
‘Darn it, woman! Reload!’
William’s voice, carrying such uncharacteristic anger, made her flinch. He was normally such a quiet, patient man. But, of course, this was neither the time nor the place for peace or patience.
