by Zane Grey
Pilchuck raised himself to peer over a rock, and he studied the lay of the encampment, the narrow gateways of cañon above and below, and the approaches from the slope on his side. Then he slipped back to face the line of crouching men.
“By holdin’ high we’re in range right here,” he whispered tensely. “Starwell, take ten men an’ crawl back a little, then around an’ down to a point even with where this cañon narrows below. Harkaway, you take ten men an’ go above, an’ slip down same way. . . . Go slow. Don’t make noise. Don’t stand up. . . . We can then see each other’s positions, an’ command all but the far side of this cañon. That’s a big camp . . . there’s two hundred Indians, more if they have their families an’ I reckon they have. Now Indians always fight harder under such conditions. We’re in for a hell of a fight. But don’t intentionally shoot squaws an’ kids. . . . That’s all.”
* * * * *
With only the slightest rustle and scrape, and deep intake of breath, the two detachments under Starwell and Harkaway crept back among the stones out of sight. Then absolute silence once more reigned.
Pilchuck’s men lay flat, some of them, more favorably located than others, peering from behind stones. No one spoke. They all waited. Meanwhile the gray dawn broadened to daylight.
“Ugh!” grunted Bear Claws, deep in his throat. His sinewy hand gripped Tom’s shoulder.
Tom raised his head a couple of inches. And he espied a tall Indian standing before a teepee facing the east, where faint streaks of pink and rose heralded the sunrise. Tom felt a violent start jerk over his whole body. It was a hot burst of blood. This very Comanche might have been one of the murderers of Hudnall or, just as much a possibility, one of the despoilers of Jett’s camp, from which Molly Fayre had disappeared. That terrible loss seemed to Tom far back in the past, lengthened, changed by suffering. It was nothing less than hate with which Tom watched that statuesque Indian.
Presently another Indian brave appeared, and another, then several squaws, and in comparatively short time the camp appeared active. Columns of blue smoke arose lazily on the still air. The ponies began to move about.
What an endless period it seemed to Tom for Harkaway and Starwell to get into their positions! Yet they had an easier task than the one accomplished in the first place. Tom wondered if Pilchuck would wait much longer. His blood beat thick at his temples, his throat was dry, and a dimness of eye bothered him every few seconds.
“Ugh!” exclaimed Bear Claws, and this time he touched Pilchuck, directing him toward a certain point in the encampment.
At that juncture, there pealed out a singularly penetrating yell, most startling in its suddenness, and nerve-racking with its terrible long-drawn and sustained wildness.
“Comanche war cry,” hissed Pilchuck. “Some buck has glimpsed our men below. Wait. We want the shootin’ to begin below an’ above. Then mebbe the Indians will run this way.”
Scarcely had the scout ceased his rapid whisper when a Sharps rifle awoke the sleeping echoes. It came from Starwell’s detachment below.
In an instant the Indian camp became a scene of wild rush and shrill cry, above which pealed sharp quick shouts—the voice of authority. A heavy volley from Starwell’s man was signal for Harkaway’s to open up. The puffs of white smoke over the stones betrayed the whereabouts of both detachments. A rattle of Winchesters from the camp told how speedily many of the Indians had gotten into the action.
Despite Pilchuck’s orders, some of his men began to fire.
“All right, if you can’t wait. But shoot high!” he shouted.
Twenty Creedmoors thundered in unison from that rocky slope. It seemed to Tom then that hell indeed had broken loose. He had aimed and shot at a running brave. What strange fierceness he felt! His hands shook to spoil his aim and his face streamed with cold sweat. All the men were loading and firing, and he was in the midst of a cracking din. Yet above it all rose a weird piercing sound—the war cry of the Comanches. Tom thought as he shuddered under it that he understood now why hunters had talked of this most hideous and infamous of all Indian yells.
In a few moments the first blending roar of guns and yells broke, and there intervened a less consistent din. Pandemonium reigned down in that encampment, yet there must have been many crafty Indians. Already the front line of teepees was in flames, sending up streaks of smoke, behind which the women and children were dimly seen running for the opposite slope. A number of frightened mustangs were racing, with flying manes and tails, up and down the cañon, but the majority appeared to be under control of the Indians and corralled at the widest point. Soon many braves, women, and children, dragging packs and horses, were seen through or around the smoke on the opposite slope.
The Comanche braves below there lived up to their reputation as the most daring and wonderful horsemen of the plains. To draw the fire of the hunters, numbers of them, half-naked demons, yelling, with rifles in hands, rode their mustangs bare-back, with magnificent affront and tremendous speed, straight at the gateways of the cañon. They ran a gauntlet of leaden hail.
Tom saw braves pitch headlong to the earth. He saw mustangs plunge and throw their riders far. And he also saw Indians ride fleet as the storm winds under the volleys from the slope, to escape down the cañon.
No sooner had one bunch of rider braves attempted this than another drove their mustangs pell-mell at the openings. They favored the lower gate, beneath Starwell’s detachment, being quick to catch some little advantage there. The foremost of four Indians, a lean, wild brave, magnificently mounted, made such a wonderful target with his defiance and horsemanship that he drew practically all the fire. He rode to his death, but his three companions flashed through the gateway in safety.
“Hold men! Hold!” yelled Pilchuck suddenly at this juncture. “Load up an’ wait. We’re in for a charge or a trick.”
Tom Doan drew a deep breath, as if he were stifling. His meaty, powder-begrimed hands fumbled at the hot breech of his Creedmoor. How many times had he fired? He did not know, nor could he tell whether or not he had shot an Indian.
Following with sharp gaze where the scout pointed, Tom saw through smoke and heat the little puffs of white, all along behind the burning line of teepees. There were many braves lying flat, behind stones, trees, camp duffel, everything that would hide a man. Bullets whistled over Tom’s head and spanged from the rocks on each side of him.
“Watch that bunch on horses!” called Pilchuck warningly. “There’s fifty if there’s one. Reckon we’ve bit off more’n we can chew.”
Dimly through the now thinning smoke Tom could see the bunch of riders designated by Pilchuck. They were planning some audacious break like that of the braves who had sacrificed themselves to help their families to escape. This would be different, manifestly, for all the women and children, and the young braves with them, had disappeared over the far slope. It was war now.
“Jude, they’re too smart to charge us,” said a grizzled old hunter. “I’ll swear thet bunch is aimin’ to make a break to git by an’ above us.”
“Wal, if they do, we’ll be in a hell of a pickle,” replied the scout. “I’ll ask Bear Claws what he makes of it.”
The Osage readily replied—“No weyno.”—which Tom interpreted as being anything but good for the hunters.
The Mexican urged Pilchuck to work back to higher ground, but the scout grimly shook his head.
Suddenly with remarkable swiftness the compact bunch of Indian horsemen disintegrated, and seemed to spill both to right and left.
“What the hell?” muttered Pilchuck.
One line of Comanche riders swerved below the camp, the other above, and they rode strung out in single file, going in opposite directions. Starwell and Harkaway reserved their fire, expecting some trick. When halfway to each gate the leader of each string wheeled at right angles to head straight for the slope.
“By God, they’re goin’ between us!” ejaculated Pilchuck. “Men, we’ve shore got to stick now, an’ fight for
our lives.”
At two hundred yards these incomparable riders were as hard to hit with bullets as birds on the wing. Starwell’s detachment began to shoot and Harkaway’s followed suit. Their guns were drowned in the dreadful war cry of the Comanches. It seemed wilder, more piercing now, closer, a united sound, filling the ears, horrid yet not discordant, full of death, but for all that a magnificent blending of human voices. It was the cry of a wild tribe for life.
It lifted Tom’s hair stiff on his head. He watched with staring eyes. How those mustangs leaped! They crossed the open level below, the danger zone of leaden hail, without a break in their speeding line. When they reached the base of the slope, they were jerked to their haunches, and in a flash each one was riderless. The Comanches had taken to the rocks.
“Ahuh! I reckoned so,” growled Pilchuck. “Pretty slick, if I do say it. Men, we’ve got crawlin’ snakes to deal with now. You shore have to look sharp.”
This sudden maneuver had the same effect upon the Starwell and Harkaway detachments as it had on Pilchuck’s. It almost turned the tables on the white men. How grave it was perhaps only the experienced plainsmen realized. They all reserved their fire, manifestly directing attention to this new and hidden peril. The Comanches left in camp, a considerable number, redoubled their fire.
“Men, reckon it ain’t time yet to say everyone for himself,” declared Pilchuck. “But we’ve shore got to crawl up to the level. Spread out, an’ crawl flat on your bellies, an’ keep rocks behind you.”
Thus began a retreat, fraught with great risk. Bullets from the Winchesters spanged off the rocks, puffing white powder dust into the air. And these bullets came from the rear. The Comanches on each side had vanished like lizards into the maze of boulders. But every hunter realized these Indians were creeping, crawling, worming their way to places of advantage, keeping with the cunning natural to them out of sight.
Tom essayed to keep up with Bear Claws, but this was impossible by crawling. The Osage wriggled like a snake. Pilchuck, too, covered ground remarkably for a large man. Others crawled fast or slow, according to their abilities. Thus the detachment, which had heretofore kept together, gradually disintegrated.
It had been a short two hundred yards from the top of this slope to the position the hunters had abandoned. Crawling back seemed interminable and insurmountable to Tom. Yet he saw how imperative it was to get there.
Someone was close behind Tom, crawling laboriously, panting heavily. It was Ory Jacks. As he was fat and round, the exertion was almost beyond his endurance, and the risks were great. Tom had himself to think of, yet he wondered if he should not help Ory. Roberts crawled a little to Tom’s left. He, too, was slow. An old white-haired buffalo hunter named Calkins had taken Pilchuck’s place on Tom’s right. The others were above, fast wriggling out of sight.
A bullet zipped off a stone close to Tom and sang into the air. It had come from another direction. Another bullet, striking in front of him, scattered dust and gravel in his face. Then bullets hissed low down, just over the rocks. The Comanches were not yet above the hunters. Calkins called low for those back of him to hurry, that the word had been passed back from Pilchuck.
Tom was crawling as flat as a flounder, dragging a heavy gun. He could not make faster time. He was burning with sweat, yet cold as ice, and the crack of Winchesters seemed the discordance of a nightmare.
“Doan,” called Roberts sharply, “the fellow behind you’s been hit!”
Tom peered around. Ory Jacks lay with face down. His fat body was quivering.
“Ory! Ory, are you hit?” flashed Tom.
“I should smile,” he groaned, lifting a pale face. His old slouch hat was still in place and a tuft of tow-colored hair stuck out through a hole. “Never mind . . . me.”
“Roberts, come, help me!” called Tom, and began to back down toward Ory. Roberts did likewise, and they both reached the young man about the same time.
“Much obliged to see you,” said Ory gratefully as they took hold of his arms, one on each side.
Up to that moment Tom had been mostly stultified by emotion utterly new to him. It had been close to panic, for he had found himself hard put to it to keep from leaping up to run. But something in connection with Ory’s misfortune strung Tom suddenly and acutely to another mood. Grim realization and anger drove away his fear.
“Drag him . . . he cain’t help himself,” panted Roberts.
Then began what Tom felt to be the most heart-breaking labor imaginable. They had to crawl and drag the wounded Ory uphill. Tom locked his left arm under Ory’s, and, dragging his rifle in his right hand, he jerked and hunched himself along. Bullets now began to whistle and patter from the other side, signifying that the Comanches to the right had located the crawling hunters. Suddenly above Tom boomed a heavy Creedmoor—then two booms followed in succession.
“Good! It was . . . aboot time,” panted Roberts.
Tom felt the cold thrill out of his marrow for good. It was fight now. Pilchuck, Bear Claws, the Mexican, and some of the old plainsmen had reached the top of the slope, and had opened up on the Comanches. This spurred him, if not to greater effort, which was impossible, to dogged and unquenchable endurance. Roberts whistled through his nose, his lean face was bathed with sweat. Ory Jacks struggled bravely to help himself along, although it was plain his agony was tremendous.
The slope grew less steep and more thickly strewn with large rocks. Tom heard no more bullets whiz up from direction of the encampment. They came from both sides, and the reports of Winchesters, sharp and rattling above the Creedmoors, covered a wide half circle. Farther away the guns of the Starwell and Harkaway forces rang out steadily, if not often. It had become a hot battle and the men were no longer shooting at white puffs of smoke.
Not a moment too soon did Tom and Roberts drag Jacks over the top of the slope, into a zone of large boulders from behind which Pilchuck and his men were fighting. For almost at the last instant Tom heard a dull spat of lead striking flesh. Roberts’s left arm, on which he was hunching himself along, crumpled under him, and he dropped flat.
“They . . . busted . . . me,” he declared huskily, then let go of Jacks, and floundered behind a rock.
Tom by superhuman exertion dragged Ory farther in, behind a long low ledge, from which a hunter was shooting. Then Tom collapsed. But as he sank flat, he heard the boy’s grateful: “Much obliged, Tom.” For a few moments then Tom was deaf and blind to the battle. There was a bursting riot within his breast, an over-taxed heart fluttering to recover. It seemed long that he lay prostrate, utterly unable to lift face or hand. But gradually that passed. Pilchuck crawled close, smelling of sweat, dust, and powder.
“Tom, are you hurt?” he queried, shaking him.
“No . . . only . . . all in,” whispered Tom huskily, between pants. “We had to . . . drag Ory . . . up here. He’s hit . . . so’s Roberts.”
“I’ll take a look at them,” said the scout. “We’re shore in better position here. Reckon we can hold the red devils off. Lucky Starwell an’ Harkaway are behind them, on both sides. We’re in for a siege . . . bullets flyin’ from east an’ west. Peep out mighty careful, an’ look for an Indian. Don’t shoot at smoke.”
Tom crawled a little to the left and cautiously took up a position where he could peer from behind the long flat rock. He could see nothing move. An uneven field of boulders, large and small, stretched away, with narrow aisles of gray grass and ground between. The firing had diminished greatly. Both sides were conserving ammunition. Not for several moments did Tom espy a puff of white smoke, and that came from a heavy Creedmoor, four hundred yards or more away, from a point above where Star-well’s men had guarded the gateway of the cañon.
Meanwhile, as he watched for something to shoot at, he could hear Pilchuck working over the wounded men, and ascertained that Roberts had been shot through the arm, not however to break the bones, and Ory Jacks had a broken hip. Tom realized the gravity of such a wound, out there in the wildernes
s.
“I’d be much obliged for a drink of water,” was all Tom heard Ory say.
Pilchuck crawled away and did not return. Ory Jacks and Roberts lay at the base of the low ledge, out of range of bullets for the present. But they lay in the sun and already the sun was hot. The scout had chosen a small oval space irregularly surrounded by boulders and outcroppings of rough ledges. By twisting his head Tom could espy eight or ten of Pilchuck’s force, some facing east behind their fortifications, others facing west. Tom heard both profanity and loquacious humor. The Mexican and the Osage were not in sight.
Then Tom peeped out from behind his own covert. This time his quick eye caught a glimpse of something more, like a rabbit slipping into brush. Above that place then shot out a red streak, and a thin blue-white cloud of smoke. Sputt! A bullet hit the corner of his rock and whined away. Tom dodged back, suddenly aghast, and hot with anger. A sharp-eyed Indian had seen him. Tom wormed his way around back of the long rock to the other end. Behind the next rock lay the old white-haired hunter, bare-headed, with sweat and tobacco stains upon his grizzled face.
“Take it easy an’ slow,” he advised Tom complacently. “Comanches can’t stand a long fight. They’re riders, an’ all we need is patience. On the ground we can lick hell out of them.”
The old plainsman’s nonchalance was incredible, yet vastly helpful to Tom. He put a hard curb on his impetuosity, and forced himself to wait, and think carefully of every action before he undertook it. Therefore he found a position where he could command a certain limited field of rocks, without risk to himself. It was like peeping through a knothole too small for any enemy to see at a distance. From this vantage point Tom caught fleeting glimpses and flashes of color, gray and bronze, once a speck of red. But these vanished before he could bring his rifle into play.
