The Dangerous Land

by Ralph Compton

  After taking a few steps away from both downed Comanches, the gunman took quick aim and fired. The Comanche had already started rolling to one side, allowing the Colt’s bullet to dig a hole into the patch of ground he’d left behind. It only took a heartbeat for the gunman to shift his weight and adjust his aim. The Comanche had just planted the foot that he would have used to push off again and knew there wasn’t enough time to do so.

  Sighting down his barrel, the gunman spun around and ran into the nearby trees.

  Comanche war cries could be heard from almost every direction. Every direction except for the one directly ahead of the gunman. He used his pistol to knock aside low-hanging branches while leaping over half-buried logs in his path. When he exploded through a row of bushes, he was confronted by the Indian that had taken off after Paul. The gunman’s eyes widened as he attempted to stop. His feet skidded against rough ground but he was unable to avoid charging straight into the Comanche’s waiting blade.

  Crouching low and moving swiftly, the Indian slashed at the gunman’s leg to send a spray of blood through the air. He then stepped aside to allow the gunman to stagger forward before dropping to one knee.

  When the gunman brought his Colt around, his arm was immediately batted aside. He felt the sharpened stone blade slice along his forearm moments before a solid punch was delivered to his kidney from behind. The gunman clenched his eyes shut as the breath was violently forced from his lungs. When he tried to pull himself away, a second punch landed in the same spot as the first to drop him onto all fours.

  The smaller Comanche paced in front of the gunman, snarling in his native tongue. Nobody had to be versed in his language to know the vicious intent being conveyed by those words.

  Laughing through a series of coughs, the gunman looked up at him and spat back a short tirade of his own in the same dialect.

  At first, the Comanche was surprised by the gunman’s fluency in his language. Then the words themselves sank in and were quickly answered by a swift kick to the gunman’s jaw.

  Chapter 17

  Paul wasn’t sure how long the gunman had been knocked out. Mostly that was because he wasn’t even sure how long he’d been knocked out himself. When his eyes finally opened, Paul found himself staring into the young rounded face of an Indian child. The child’s features were soft, warm, and curious. As Paul started to move, the child jumped back in surprise.

  “It’s all right,” Paul said reflexively. “I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

  The child stood up straight and started to laugh. A thick mop of black hair hung slightly over his eyes as he covered his mouth and giggled even harder. Soon other children joined in the laughter. Paul was lying on his side, so he attempted to sit up. That’s when he discovered he was tied up tighter than a calf at a rodeo. More than that, his ropes were attached to something that held them and him firmly in place. At least now he saw why the notion of him posing any sort of threat was so amusing to the children.

  His vision was clouded, allowing him to see only what was right in front of him. Once the children were scattered by the scolding voice of an adult somewhere nearby, the only thing in his sight was the gunman lying on his side as well. With a bit of effort and a whole lot of squinting, Paul was able to make out the ropes binding the gunman’s hands, feet, arms, and legs. Blood was dried on his face, and judging by the throbbing ache in his skull, Paul guessed he was similarly damaged.

  “Hey,” he hissed. When he didn’t get a response, Paul spoke a little louder. “Hey! You there! Can you hear me?”

  “Wh . . . wha?” the gunman moaned. “O . . . course I hear you,” he said in a slurred voice. “Try’n t’ sleep.”

  “Wake up!”

  The gunman’s eyes barely opened wide enough to form a pair of slits above his nose. Opening them farther took a great deal of strain and appeared to take quite a toll on the gunman before he could finally see more than a few shapes and shadows. “Where? Wh . . . what?”

  “We’ve been captured,” Paul told him.

  Scowling over at Paul, the gunman replied, “Well . . . now, there’s a revelation for ya! I thought we both just tripped into a pile of rope and rolled down a hill.”

  “Keep your smart mouth shut, then. This is your fault anyway.”

  “My fault? How do you figure?”

  “You’re the one that decided to start the fight in the first place. That’s how. I was doing just fine before you came stomping along.”

  “Oh, were you?” the gunman snapped. “If I hadn’t stopped you, there would’ve been even more Comanches to deal with. The way you were flopping around and flashing the sunlight off them expensive field glasses, you couldn’t have attracted more attention with a bonfire.”

  “But you’re the one who gave them a reason to fight,” Paul said. “Why didn’t you just try to get away before any more of them came along?”

  “Because I thought you were clearing the way! You took off, and since you’re obviously a scalp hunter, I guessed you would have brought down the little fella chasing you without a problem.”

  “I’m obviously a what?”

  The gunman’s brow furrowed and he looked around as best he could. “An Injun hunter,” he whispered.

  Paul started to respond to that but found he didn’t have the words. Instead he wound up shaking his head in disbelief before resting it on the ground.

  “You ain’t a hunter?” the gunman asked.

  “Of course I’m not.”

  “But I followed you to two other camps before this one,” the gunman said. “You snuck up to each one and strode right into them teepees like you aimed to clean them out. If those camps weren’t already cleared out, I thought you meant to . . .”

  “Meant to what?” Paul sighed.

  Gritting his teeth, the gunman said, “Forget it. I was obviously mistaken. About you bein’ a hunter and especially about you doin’ much of anything during that fight other than running like a dog with your tail tucked between yer legs.”

  Paul tried to stretch his arms and legs slowly to get a feel for how securely they were bound. He could barely move them at all before the ropes drew taut. “For your information, the only reason I was captured was that I thought I might be able to lend you a hand.”

  While Paul had been testing the limits of his ropes, the gunman struggled against them as if they were living things that would eventually surrender to him. Thrashing as if he were having convulsions, he stopped and craned his neck to look at Paul when he asked, “And just how were you going to lend me a hand?”

  “Well . . . I thought I’d lost the man who was chasing me and I didn’t want to just leave you to be brought down by those others.”

  “You think I’ll believe you were getting all sentimental after I’d gotten the drop on you before?”

  “We could have talked things through,” Paul replied. “I didn’t want a man’s death on my conscience. I’d like to think you or anyone else would have done the same in my position.”

  Throwing himself back into the war against his ropes, the gunman said, “Sure. Anyone would have done the same.”

  “That wasn’t very convincing.”

  “Seeing as how you only managed to attract attention to us and then failed to gain any sort of advantage even after sneaking back around to face the Injuns that were trying to kill me, I’m not exactly feeling very charitable about you or anyone else around here.”

  “Are you hurt?” Paul asked. “Looks like you were cut on your arm and leg.”

  Still squirming, the gunman replied, “I’ve had a lot worse. Anyway, I think someone wrapped up the cuts before they bled too much. Looks like you got away in much better shape.”

  Paul let out a grunting laugh.

  “What’s funny?” the gunman asked.

  “You still think I’m some sort of bounty killer?”

  “
I don’t know what to make of you, mister. All I know is that I don’t like what I’ve seen so far.”

  After a bit more struggling, Paul said, “You think I managed to lose the Comanche that was chasing me and then sneak back around to the spot where you were fighting?”

  “All right, then. You were probably lying about wanting to lend me a hand with those murderous savages. I suppose that’s fairly easy to believe.”

  “I was telling the truth about what happened,” Paul explained. “And I did want to lend a hand. At least . . . to keep anyone from getting killed. When I started to come back and see what I might be able to do . . . that Comanche who was chasing me came at me from out of nowhere and knocked me cold. Next thing I know . . . I woke up here.”

  The gunman stopped struggling just long enough to take a few gulping breaths. “Now, that . . . I can believe,” he said.

  “By the way . . . who are you?”

  “You want introductions?” the gunman asked. “Now?”

  “Since our escape plans don’t seem to be going very well, it seems we don’t have much else to do.”

  Unable to dispute that, the gunman said, “I’m Hank Adley.”

  “And I’m—”

  “Paul Meakes,” Hank said. “You mentioned that already. Right before we were jumped, knocked out cold, tied up, and dragged back to this here Injun camp.”

  “Oh,” Paul said. “I suppose I did.”

  “You claimed to be a shopkeeper. Guess that makes a bit more sense now that I’ve seen you fight.”

  “And that’d make you a scalp hunter.”

  “What?” Hank replied as his eyes darted around and his mouth gaped open like that of a fish that had just been tossed onto shore by a grizzly bear. “I don’t know what you mean!” In a harsh whisper, he added, “Keep yer voice down, you fool. Don’t forget where we are! What makes you think I’m . . . someone like that?”

  “Because you obviously knew where to look for those camps, you’re fairly good at tracking someone, and can mostly handle yourself in a fight.”

  “Mostly?”

  Before Hank could rise to his own defense, he caught sight of half a dozen Comanches walking straight toward them. They were armed with weapons ranging from spears and knives to a few rifles. “When the white man can’t fight us,” the lead Comanche said, “they fight each other. And they call us savages.”

  “You’re the ones that attacked us!” Hank said defiantly.

  Given what he’d already seen and pieced together about the other man, Paul couldn’t help being impressed at how steadfast Hank was in defending his so-called honor.

  The Comanche who’d made the observation wasn’t the tallest of the group, but his manner and stance made it clear that he was the leader among them. Straight black hair hung to his wide shoulders, and the skins he wore hung over his muscular frame as if they’d been there for as long as bark had been wrapped around trees. “If you like,” he said in a growling tone, “we can finish what was started outside the village.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Paul quickly said.

  One of the other Comanches stepped forward holding his rifle by the barrel. Raising it up and pointing the stock down at Hank’s jaw, he took a solid stance and was about to take his shot when the lead Comanche held him back with one arm.

  “That won’t be necessary either,” the Comanche said. “Will it?”

  Keeping his mouth shut, Hank shook his head.

  Chapter 18

  Paul’s and Hank’s ropes were secured to the ground by short stakes similar to what would be used to pitch a tent. They realized this only when they were hauled to their feet after the stakes had been pulled from the ground. From there, both men were unceremoniously shoved through the village while a growing group of children followed and laughed among themselves. The Comanche braves leading the prisoners to one of the larger teepees didn’t find the process as amusing as the children did, but they did give the men an extra shove every now and then to give the kids something else to laugh at.

  “This is degrading,” Hank grumbled.

  “I’d much rather be a little embarrassed,” Paul said, “than left tied to the ground like a dog. Considering how we were brought here, things could have been a whole lot worse.”

  Hank didn’t disagree with that, but he wasn’t feeling charitable enough to agree either.

  The village struck Paul as being too full for its own good. While it was the biggest of the three marked on his map, there seemed to be people stuck into every available teepee and just a few too many horses at each hitching post. Every so often, when he could get a look inside a teepee that wasn’t full of occupants, he saw sacks of supplies piled almost to the top of the canvas structure. As for the people themselves, most of the adults looked tired and weary. The eyes that watched Paul and Hank were cautious and most heads hung low. The only exceptions to this were the younger men, who looked ready for a fight, and the children, who were simply keeping themselves busy any way they could.

  When they arrived at a tall teepee near the middle of the village, Paul and Hank were stopped by strong hands slapped onto their shoulders. The Comanche at the head of the line stepped inside and spoke to a man with skin that was as smooth as the sand-blasted surface of a desert mesa and hair that flowed like white water almost down to his waist. Once the younger Comanche was done speaking to him, the old man nodded and motioned for the rest of the procession to step inside.

  As the old man sat down, Paul and Hank were forced to follow suit by the same hands that had roughly stopped them in their tracks a few seconds before. Although Paul was more than willing to comply, Hank made a show of keeping his head up and back straight even if it meant fighting against the far superior strength of the Comanche warrior behind him.

  “I am glad the two of you have been treated well,” the old man said.

  “Treated well?” Hank replied. “You call being trussed up and knocked in the jaw good treatment?”

  “Considering how badly all of these young men wanted to kill you . . . yes.”

  “Point taken,” Paul quickly replied. “Thank you.”

  The old man had yet to take his eyes off Hank. “A few of these braves had some very interesting ideas,” he said in a deeply weathered voice. “Staking you to the ground with a dozen cuts in your flesh to let worms crawl under your skin was one of my favorites.”

  “All right, all right!” Hank said. “I understand.”

  Smiling, the old man looked up and nodded to several of the younger Comanches in turn. Although the nods seemed similar to Paul, some of the other men took theirs as an order to leave and a couple found a spot to sit near the wall of the teepee.

  “I am Buffalo Horn,” the old man said. “Chief to some of these people. Leader of all of them for the time being.”

  “Pleased to meet you, sir,” Paul said. “I’m Paul Meakes.”

  Buffalo Horn gave him a nod that was a slow, courteous warning to keep minding his manners.

  “And, loud one, you are?” the chief said as he looked toward Hank. When he was about to get the prisoner’s answer, Buffalo Horn held up a finger and said, “Perhaps I do not need your name. Perhaps I have given you a new name. Loud One.”

  The Comanche who’d led the group to the tent let out a loud guffaw.

  “Being named by the rest of the tribe is an honor,” Buffalo Horn said. “For an outsider . . . even more so.”

  “I got my own name,” Hank said. “Keep that other one and any other jokes you got to tell. How’d that be?”

  Sitting with his back straight, the Comanche who’d just been laughing suddenly turned colder than a pond in the dead of winter. “Speak to our elder that way again and you will get another new name. Dead One.”

  Buffalo Horn smirked and said, “Perhaps you would rather tell us your true name?”

  �
��Y . . . yeah. Hank Adley.”

  “That is more fitting. For now, at least.” Turning his attention to Paul, Buffalo Horn said, “Now you can explain what you are doing in my people’s village.”

  “Certainly. I was . . . um . . .” Although Paul had been hoping for an opportunity to get what his children needed, the moment itself was about to overwhelm him. Now that he was sitting among the Comanches, having a word with a chief, all he could think about was the fact that he was wedged smack in the middle of a group of armed warriors who’d already fired shots at him.

  “Go on,” Buffalo Horn prodded.

  The Comanche chief had a formidable presence, but Paul didn’t exactly fear him. Buffalo Horn had yet to make a single move that could be considered hostile. His men, however, were a different story. Then Paul reminded himself that he hadn’t come this far just to back away now. “I’m . . . well . . . not exactly much of a spokesman,” he said. “I’m not even certain coming here was such a smart idea.”

  Although Hank obviously agreed with that sentiment, he bit his tongue and rolled his eyes in a way that would have made Abigail proud.

  “I can see you are not a soldier,” Buffalo Horn said. “And you are not here to hunt my people. You don’t even seem like a man who has carried a weapon into war. Whatever brings you here, it comes from your heart. That is why I am speaking to you now instead of leaving you to the younger men of this village. You are not soldiers and that is why some of our women cleaned your wounds while you were asleep.”

  “Much obliged for the courtesy, sir,” Paul said with a slight bow. As soon as he lifted his head from the gesture, he felt foolish, so he continued along as though he hadn’t even done it. “I own a store in Keystone Pass. Ever been there?”