“This is goin’ to hurt like hell,” he told the Bostonian, “but I can put it back in place if you’re game.”
Calthorp said he was game. Jody thought back and remembered his brother suffering the same injury. The bone had gone back into place simply by walking. Maybe the same tactic would work again. Any road, it was worth a try. He’d do that, then be would be on his way. He could still feel the presence of the Utes behind him.
“Get up an’ walk,” he told the patient and the poor fellow looked at him as if he were out of his mind.
“I’m lying here,” he declared, “because I can’t walk.”
Jody rose, held out a hand and heaved the man to his feet.
“I say, old man,” Wilder said, “I do hope you know what you’re doing.”
Jody wasn’t at all sure he knew what he was doing, but he said: “Sure, I know. I done this a dozen times.” That seemed to make a suitable impression. Calthorp looked at him now with trust and respect.
“Walk,” said Jody in a tough voice.
He backed up a half-dozen yards. Calthorp gazed at him, getting up his courage.
“Come on, walk,” Jody repeated.
The man took a step and drew in his breath sharply.
“I can’t do it,” he said.
Jody said: “You two fellers git one on either side of him and tote him along.”
They obeyed. They took his arms and started to walk him forward. Calthorp cried out. There was a resounding click as sharp and clear as the report of a gun and suddenly his face relaxed in a grin.
“My God,” he cried, “it worked.”
“Hell,” said Jody, “I told you it would.”
After that, they all looked at him as if he were a prophet come down from the hills.
“I say,” Wilder said, “Let’s light a fire and show our guest some hospitality. Charlie, you can make one of your wonderful stews.”
“No fire,” said Jody, his mind back with the Utes again. He realized that he couldn’t ride off and leave these three men exposed to the Indians. Maybe Feather had lost them for him, maybe he hadn’t.
“Why no fire?” Straker wanted to know.
Jody told them about the Indians. They looked at each other.
“We never had trouble with Indians,” Calthorp told him. “We’ve been in this country for three months and we’ve hardly seen an Indian.”
“All right,” Jody said, “have it your own way. All I know is there’s a couple of bucks wants my hair. Maybe if they come this way, they won’t take a fancy to your horses, but I wouldn’t bank on it.”
“No offence meant, old chap,” said Wilder. “Perhaps you would care to travel with us for a short while. Safety in numbers, and all that, you know. We’re all pretty good shots and can put up a pretty good show.”
Jody was doubtful. He had the Western idea that greenhorns were greenhorns and that was the end of the matter. He wanted out. He wanted to keep on going, but somehow he felt responsible for these three young men. How they had survived for so long in this wild country, he had no idea. First pure luck, he imagined, the made up his mind. “I’ll stay,” he said, “but if you’re goin’ to stick around here, you’ll have to find a better place to camp. You’re wide open here and if the Indians jumped you ...”
“I think,” said Wilder in a conversational voice, “if you don’t mind my saying so, that you’re just a little bit too late, old chap.”
Jody looked at him and saw that he was staring down-stream. Hastily, he looked back over his shoulder and saw the solitary horseman in the creek bed. The rider was a good distance off, but there wasn’t any doubt that he was an Indian.
He turned to his companions and said: “Act natural. Don’t let on you saw him. Tote your gear up into the rock yonder. Straker, bring in the horses.” He looked back down-stream again.
The Indian was gone.
The three pilgrims remained remarkably calm. He gave them full credit for that. They started gathering up their camp equipment and carrying it up the sloping shore of the creek to the rocks above. Jody went to Blue and drew the single-shot from the boot on the saddle. He loaded it and stood ready, keeping his eyes open. Maybe it would come to nothing. Maybe the Indian they had seen had nothing to do with Arrow’s band. Just the same ...
Calthorp was walking back for the last load when it happened.
Jody was watching the trees above, knowing that they would allow anybody to get to within some forty yards of them without being seen, when he heard a faint cry and turned to see the Bostonian throw up his arms, stagger a couple of paces and fall to the ground.
Straker, above, saw also and came running. Jody begged it for the fallen man and saw that he had been shot through the body with an arrow. It must have been loosed at close range and with enormous force, for the feathers almost touched the body and the barbed head stuck out far to the back of the body.
Jody looked at the boscage above and could see nothing. He reckoned he could do with his Uncle Mart or old Joe right now. But he didn’t have them and he would have to make out on his lonesome.
“Tote him to cover,” he told Straker, trying to keep his voice steady. To him it sounded as if he succeeded. He wondered how many Indians there were. If there were only one or two of them, maybe he would have a chance.
Calthorp was babbling incoherently and each time he uttered, a little blood-flecked foam came out of his mouth. With some difficulty, Straker picked him up and started staggering toward the rocks.
Jody saw Wilder’s alarmed face showing above the rocks.
“Watch the trees,” Jody called. He watched the trees himself, giving Straker cover. Nothing stirred. The Indians were playing it with caution. Maybe they remembered he’d shot one of them back in the hills.
At last Straker reached the rocks. Jody headed after him, still watching the trees. He reached the rocks without anything happening and told Straker: “Take a rifle and watch the trees.” Straker obeyed him. Jody looked at the two of them and wondered how they would be when the fight started. If it started. The Englishman was scared, but because a man was scared that didn’t mean he wouldn’t fight when he had to.
Silence hung over the scene. The only sounds were Calthorp’s soft babble and the stirring of the horses.
Jody laid down his rifle and snapped off the feathered head of the arrow in the Bostonian’s body. It wasn’t easy because there wasn’t much wood to get a grip on. Calthorp groaned deeply. Jody rolled him gently over onto his face and pulled the arrow out of his back. It made a light sucking sound and there was a rush of blood from the wound. Jody reckoned that the arrow had gone clean through the lung. There was little hope for Calthorp. He had heard of men who has had survived arrows through the lung, but that needed a lot of chance on the man’s side. He wondered if such luck belonged to Calthorp.
Jody started tearing rags off shirt ends and padding the twin wounds. First, he had to stop the bleeding. He bound pads of the rag in place with his bandanna tied around the man’s slim body. When he was through, Calthorp looked at him and grinned wanly. Then he seemed to pass out.
Something whoosed past him and stuck quivering in a saddle.
Jody rose to his knees and looked around.
Nothing.
If only the Indians would get mad and try a rush. They would have to cross open ground and would provide good targets. He had hoped there wouldn’t have to be any killing. If they killed an Indian that could bring the whole of Arrow’s band down on them. That that could mean finish. But how could these boys be stopped without one of them being killed. Just one killing and it might change their minds.
Straker cried out that he was hit. Jody glanced his way and saw an arrow sticking out of his thigh.
“If you can pull it out,” Jody said, “pull it out.”
Straker stared at him for a moment, then obeyed, gritting his teeth and heaving on the feathered shaft. When the point came free of flesh, he cried out: “Jesus,” and sucked in his breath.
The sound of the shot seemed to calm him. With a little grin, he said: “Think I wasted that one, chaps. But I must have frightened him out of his skin.”
Jody started to think about the situation. There were several hours of daylight left. How much water did they have? The creek was too far off for them to fetch water in daylight. Should they just fort-up till dark and then try to slip away under its cover? He’d always heard that Indians didn’t fight in the dark, but Pa said that was a lie, like so much of what white men thought they knew about Indians. Talk had it that one white man was worth three Indians any day of the week, but Pa said that was a lie too.
So Jody thought: I have to finish it before they get in here with their knives and lift our hair. They were in some sort of cover here, but it wasn’t an ideal spot to defend. He didn’t doubt that they were all in view of the men in the trees, with the possible exception of Calthorp who lay flat on the ground. The horses were certainly fully exposed. Jody wanted to know whether the Indians were after the horses or after him. Maybe they wanted both. Had he brought this trouble on the three pilgrims? If he was guilty of that, it was up to him to save them.
In that instant, he knew that at least one Indian out there had a gun. There was a report and a shot missed Jody by inches. It struck rock behind him and whined off into the blue. The horses stirred in alarm.
“Perhaps it would be a good idea,” Wilder said, “to try a charge.”
“You’re crazy,” Jody told him.
“It’s just that British troops find that natives don’t like a frontal assault, old chap,” said the Englishman. “I suppose it’s the cold steel that puts the wind up them.”
“We don’t even know where they’re at,” said Jody.
“That’s a point, I must admit,” said Wilder.
“But it gives me an idea,” said Jody. He went to the northern end of the rocks and looked around. Here was the spot that was nearest to the trees. Maybe if he could get into the trees ... The Indians wouldn’t feel too happy with a white man searching them out in there. It was the kind of thing Uncle Mart or Joe could pull off. But could Jody? What the hell did he know about hunting savages among trees? The Utes, as far as he knew, had been reared to forest fighting.
Well, he told himself, it wouldn’t do much good sitting here and thinking about it.
He worked his way back to Straker and Wilder and told them what he meant to do.
“Jolly good idea,” said Wilder in admiration, “But I really think I’d like to volunteer. Used to play at Red Indians when I was a shaver. Great fun.”
“No,” said Jody, “I’ll go. I’m an old hand at this kinda thing.”
Straker said: “I guess I’m bleeding to death.”
“For crissake,” Jody said, “plug the wound.” He told Wilder: “I’ll leave my rifle. Keep all four rifles loaded so you’re ready for a rush.”
“Splendid,” said Wilder. “Best of luck, old man. I think you’re an absolute brick.”
Jody was puzzled, but he let it ride. He handed his rifle and shells over, took off his belt and holster because they would only be an encumbrance. He checked the loads in the Remington and the spare chamber in his pocket. He was all set. He worked his way back past Calthorp and saw that the Bostonian’s eyes were still closed and that his face was ashen. Jody knew that he might be dead. He reached the end of the rocks and measured the distance to the trees. Now he was faced with it, it looked an awfully long way. He wished he hadn’t decided to be a hero.
Now, he thought, if I don’t go now, I’ll never go.
He could feel that there were eyes in the trees watching him, men ready to shoot a feathered shaft into his body as soon as he leapt to his feet. He gripped the Remington in his right hand and braced his legs under him.
Now, a voice yelled in his head.
The spirit was willing, but the flesh wasn’t. His brain sent the message to his legs, but his legs ignored it.
The man in the trees with the rifle fired and the ball struck rock. Jody knew that at least the rifle was empty now and that improved his chances. Before he knew what he was at, he was on his feet and running.
He seemed to be standing still. Timber was a mile away. He heard a yell but didn’t know if it came from the defenders or the attackers. He just sucked air into his lungs and went ahead, running.
The trees didn’t come any closer. His legs were going like pistons. When he reached the trees, he was going to be winded and fit for nothing.
He heard a couple of shots from the rocks as Wilder and Straker gave him covering fire.
Then, suddenly, the trees were close and he was lunging into them. He flung himself down and lay panting on the ground. He had never felt more winded in his life. But he knew that he was in danger and must move. He rose to one knee and looked around. He heard the twang of the bow as something stung him high in the shoulder.
He turned his head and saw the barbarous head of the arrow near his chin. Panic and horror rushed through him. He pulled himself around, searching for the man who had shot, but could see nothing. This trembling thumb cocked the hammer of the Remington.
A slight movement caught his eye and he switched his gaze and fired.
Careful, you don’t have all the shots in the world.
A twig cracked to his left.
He knew that he was up against two of them.
He turned, saw movement, aimed with care and fired a second shot. There was a crash of undergrowth, legs threshed about. He heard a cry and whirled again. A stab of blinding pain came from his shoulder.
He saw the hurtling form and knew that he was facing a one-man charge. He fired and missed and then the man was on him and he saw the glitter of steel right before his eyes.
He’d dropped his gun and he was falling. The man landed heavily on him and the little wind he had in him was knocked out. He twisted and felt the agony in his shoulder again. The arrow snapped and he felt as if the flesh of his shoulder had been torn off the bone. He heard somebody yell and didn’t know that it was himself.
The man’s knee was hard in his belly. The knife flashed down for his throat and he twisted in desperation, felt the edge of the blade slash his cheek. He had a brief impression on the painted face above, contorted with effort or rage. The pungent smell of Indian was in his nostrils.
With a supreme effort, born of the height of fear, he wrenched himself on one side. He felt the man on him lose his balance. The man went over and Jody fought to get to his feet. He had never put such effort into so simple a movement.
The Indian was already up, lunging toward him, the blade knifing forward straight and fast as a gut-driven arrow. Jody arched his belly. The knife ripped across the buckle of his belt. He tried to club the man with his fist as he went past, but he missed and nearly threw himself from his feet.
The man turned, quick as a cat, knife slashing viciously. Jody felt a light burn along his forearm and knew he was cut. No time to see how badly. The man circled and came in again. Jody lashed out savagely with a foot and caught the fellow on the knee. That slowed him a little and Jody drove in again with the boot and missed as the man leapt back.
Jody knew he wouldn’t finish this without a weapon. His knife was in his belt at his back, but it was impossible to reach for it with his right hand because of the arrow in his shoulder. He started to try for it with his left and the Indian charged again, stabbing first for the belly and then for the throat. Jody back-pedaled frantically, tumbled and went down. The man jumped in, circling to come in over the fallen man’s head. Jody somersaulted violently and drove his feet into the fellow’s legs. The Indian fell back a pace, but he didn’t go down. Jody came up on his knees, turning to face his opponent, still reaching for the hilt of his knife. His fingers touched it. The Indian charged again. In that instant, Jody made a supreme effort, grasped the knife and wrenched it from its sheath. He flung himself flat under a slash for his throat, hit dirt and came up with the Indian on his shou
lder.
His legs almost buckled under him, but he threw the man clear and laid in with the boot as the Indian hit dirt. The man yelped then, fought to get to his feet and blundered into Jody’s knife as it arced through the air. He behaved as if he had collided with a wall. The blade was under his rib-cage to the right hand of his body. He hung poised there, momentarily motionless, and Jody withdrew the knife with a great heave and plunged it home again.
The Indian’s face contorted. He turned slowly, clasped his body with his left hand as if to hold life in him and fell on his face.
Jody stood looking at him, bereft of strength.
A voice in his head said: Don’t let up now. Keep going or you’re finished.
He was in a daze. He looked around and saw his gun lying in the dirt. Carefully, hurting his shoulder, he bent and picked up the gun. In vain, he tried to reach the remains of the arrow sticking in his shoulder and could not. He saw that his left forearm was covered in blood.
He became aware of gunfire and knew there were more Indians there than he had reckoned on. Checking his loads, he went at a blundering run through the trees.
His sight seemed uncertain and he didn’t know if he looked at sunlight dappling on tree-trunks or on moving men. He heard a gun boom near him and knew that somebody had fired a muzzle-loader, an ancient flintlock. He saw sunlight glisten on a naked copper hide, stood and fired till his gun was empty, then automatically switched the empty chamber for the full one in his pocket.
There was a man coming toward him. He lifted the gun and pulled the trigger. An empty click. He knew that one of the percussion caps had fallen off. He cocked and fired again when the man was almost on him, brandishing a musket. The man seemed to be whisked from his sight. He blundered on.
He went on for a long time until he burst out from the trees and saw the water of the creek in front of him. He halted, bewildered.
One Man, One Gun Page 7
