Owen fired his Spencer.
Caught between Lorette and the charging Burnetts, the Comanches did the only thing they could; they ran toward their own horses, two helping the one Luke had shot. Luke shot another, and the warrior dropped.
Then the Comanches were on the fly. They made it to the cedars on the far side, and disappeared.
Lorette looked down into Sam’s smiling face, and her heart seemed to fill her chest. “You’ve just been shot with an arrow, you lunkhead. What are you smiling about?”
“You came for me,” Sam said.
“Did you reckon I wouldn’t?” Lorette said, and kissed him.
Luke arrived, swinging off his horse before it stopped moving. “Sam! How bad is it?”
“I’m fine now,” Sam said.
Luke helped Lorette lower Sam onto his side and Luke sniffed the tip of the arrow jutting from Sam’s shoulder. “I don’t think it’s tainted.”
Lorette remembered that Comanches were notorious for coating their arrowheads with rattler venom or dipping the tips in dead animals so a wound would become infected.
Owen trotted up and commenced to reload his Spencer. “We drove them off, but they might come back. Get that arrow out, Luke, quick.”
His teeth clenched, Sam mustered a chuckle. “I can’t believe I’m alive. I thought for sure I was a goner.”
“We have to get that arrow out quick,” Owen repeated. “These hills are crawling with Comanches. I have a suspicion the worst is yet to come.”
The devil of it was, so did Lorette.
Chapter 64
The caw of a crow brought Luke Burnett to a stop. It didn’t sound natural. His hand on his Remington, Luke rose in the stirrups. He spied a figure in shadow and started to draw, then realized it was the shadow of a tree and not a Comanche.
Luke frowned. He was seeing Comanches where there weren’t any. This made three times now.
“Something?” his pa said behind him.
“It’s safe,” Luke said. Only for the moment; they could run into more Comanches at any time.
“This is taking too long,” Lorette complained. “Your brother is in bad shape and should be resting.”
Luke turned. They’d extracted the arrow and torn an old shirt of his he’d taken from his saddlebags for bandages. The wound was severe, and his brother sat slumped over, resting his weight on his saddle horn. Beside him, Lorette was holding him steady.
“It can’t be helped, Miss Kurst,” Owen said. “We have to go slow and keep our eyes skinned for hostiles.”
“We haven’t seen a redskin in hours,” Lorette said. “Let’s stop and rest for Sam’s sake.”
“I’m fine,” Sam said weakly.
“Don’t lie to me,” Lorette said.
Sam slowly straightened. “We have to keep going. Your brothers and Jasper are at the camp. They can help protect you.”
“I don’t need no damn protecting,” Lorette said. “It’s you I’m thinking of.”
“Language, my dear,” Owen said. “I never let my girls talk that way.”
“I’m not one of your girls,” Lorette said, “and I’ll talk as I please.”
Luke was tempted to swear, himself. “Stop your bickering. Sam, can you go on or not? Tell me true.”
“I can,” Sam said.
“He’s only saying that on my account,” Lorette said.
“He says he can and I believe him,” Luke said. “If he shows signs of passing out, let me know and we’ll stop.”
“You promise?” Lorette said.
“A Burnett keeps his word,” Luke said, irritated that she’d think otherwise.
Except for that caw, the hills were strangely still, as if everything sensed that trespassers with violent intent were abroad, and the wildlife was holding its breath in anticipation of the bloodbath.
By Luke’s reckoning, their cattle camp was less than two miles away. Not all that far, really, except that he never knew but when a feathered shaft might catch him in the back.
Eventually they reached the hill where they had found the dead warrior weeks ago. As they wound around it, a sense came over Luke that they were being watched. He peered into every thicket, into every pool of shadow, but saw nothing.
“Luke?” his pa whispered. He was looking around, too.
“I know,” Luke said.
The cedar scrub ended and grass spread before them. For the first and only time that Luke could recollect, not one longhorn was lying down. Every last animal was up and bunched together, their hindquarters toward the creek, their heads—and their horns—pointed toward the hills that ringed them.
“What do you make of that?” Owen said.
Luke didn’t know what it portended. He was more interested in two figures standing midway to the campfire, holding the reins to their mounts.
Harland and Thaxter had returned. They were supposed to be with their pa, but there was no sign of Gareth. At the moment they appeared to be arguing about something. Harland poked Thaxter and Thaxter put his hand on his six-shooter.
“What in the world is that about?” Lorette said.
“Beats me,” Wylie said.
Only the Kursts, Luke reflected, would squabble with Comanches all around. He rode past the longhorns and when he was close enough, hollered, “You two!”
Harland didn’t seem pleased to see them. “So you pulled your little brother’s fat out of the fire, did you?” he said, not sounding happy that they had.
“Where’s Pa?” Lorette demanded. “How come he isn’t with you?”
Harland looked at Thaxter and back at her. “Pa’s dead, sis. The Comanches got him.”
Lorette put a hand to her throat. “No,” she said. “Where’s Iden and . . .” She looked past them toward the smoldering fire and stopped, her eyes widening.
Luke had already seen the bits and pieces of bodies strewn amid stains and pools of dry blood.
“Iden?” Lorette gasped. “Silsby?”
Harland shook his head.
“Jasper Weaver, too,” Thaxter said, pointing. “That’s part of him yonder.”
“All that’s left is us and these Burnetts,” Wylie said. “We should fan the breeze while we can.”
“And leave the herd?” Harland said.
“Forget the cows,” Wylie said. “Our lives are more important.”
“Forget all the work we did?” Harland said. “Forget how long it took to round them up?” He motioned at the longhorns. “Those critters are money on the hoof. All we have to do is drive them to Kansas. With Pa and our brothers gone, the Burnetts can even lend a hand.”
“You son of a bitch,” Wylie said.
“Why wouldn’t we help?” Owen said. “We’re in this together.”
“Sure,” Harland said.
“All you care about are those damned cows,” Lorette said. “Did you even shed a tear over Pa or Iden or Silsby?”
“I don’t see you bawling,” Harland said.
“I will. Don’t you worry,” Lorette snapped.
Luke was dumbfounded. Now they were spatting over who was going to cry? “Do you ever listen to yourselves?”
“Tend to your lover and leave the cattle to us,” Harland said to Lorette. “Don’t concern your little female head over them.”
“How dare you?” Lorette said.
“You tell him, sis,” Wylie said. “Harland must reckon he can lord it over us like Pa did.”
“Don’t you start up again,” Harland said.
Luke wasn’t aware they’d had a falling out of some kind. “You’re forgetting the Comanches,” he reminded them. “We’re in danger out in the open like this.”
He scanned the nearest hill and thought he saw a Comanche off in the trees. He blinked, thinking he’d imagined it, but no, the warrior was still there, st
aring at them with his arms folded. “What the hell?” he said to himself.
The Comanche did an odd thing: he smiled.
Luke went to tell the rest but before he could, the Comanche raised an arm over his head, gave voice to a savage war cry, and melted away.
“What was that?” Owen said.
From the far end of the herd rose more cries, a chorus of hate that grew steadily louder.
“The Injuns!” Thaxter exclaimed. “What are they up to?”
A stirring of the herd gave Luke the answer. “Oh, my God.”
“What?” Sam said.
“They’re trying to cause a stampede to trample us to bits.”
Chapter 65
Sam was weak from his wound and felt feverish. He wanted nothing more than to lie down and drink water until it came out his ears.
Turning toward the longhorns, he saw that his brother was right. The bedlam raised by the Comanches was driving the entire herd away from the war party—and toward their camp. The motion was slow at first, the longhorns confused and uncertain.
“What are all of you waiting for?” Wylie Kurst said. “We have to fan the breeze.”
Sam agreed. But hurt as he was, he was in no shape for a hard ride. He doubted he would last a mile.
Harland and Thaxter were staring at the longhorns as if they couldn’t believe what they were seeing.
“Mount up,” Owen urged. “Hurry, you two.”
“Those are our cattle,” Harland said. “We can’t let them be spooked.”
“We can’t stop it,” Luke said.
“All of us working together can,” Harland said. “We’ll spread out and fire our six-shooters. That should hold them back.” He drew his own. “We don’t, we lose all that money.”
“Will you forget your damn riches?” Lorette said.
Harland gestured at Thaxter. “Come on.” They climbed on their horses, hauled on their reins, and rode toward the herd, Harland waving his revolver over his head and whooping.
The longhorns were moving faster, all those hundreds and hundreds, coming straight toward them.
“Ride, boys,” Owen said. “Ride like anything.”
Sam was momentarily startled when his pa suddenly reined over and smacked Sam’s mount on the flank. The dun burst into a gallop, and he barely firmed his hold on the reins and the saddle horn to keep from being unhorsed. He heard Lorette cry his name and saw her rake her spurs to follow. Luke and his pa were right behind her. Wylie Kurst came last.
Harland and Thaxter, incredibly, were still galloping toward the herd. Both were hollering and firing their six-guns into the air.
The longhorns weren’t slowing. A veritable sea of horns stretched to the east, the Ghost deep in their midst, towering over the rest.
Thaxter slowed, but not Harland. Harland barreled right at them, determined to stop them no matter what.
The longhorns broke into a rumbling run. An irresistible phalanx of horn and muscle and bone, they bore down on the pair in a living tide that would sweep away everything in its path.
Thaxter must have realized that. He suddenly wheeled his mount and raced away.
Harland went on another ten to twenty yards. When he glanced back and saw Thaxter riding off, he tried to flee, but his horse was only halfway around when the leading ranks of the longhorns smashed into them. The horse whinnied. Harland screamed. Flailing and thrashing, the pair were swept under the flood of driving hooves. Scarlet splattered, and some of the longhorns stumbled.
Sam was almost to the woods. Out of the corner of his eye he was horrified to see that the longhorns comprising the south edge of the herd were a lot closer than he’d reckoned. He would be cut off before he could ride clear.
Hauling on his reins, Sam fled due west. His only hope now was to outrun them. He was aware of Lorette to one side but he had lost sight of his pa and Luke. He lashed his reins, the effort compounding his pain.
Sam had never ridden so recklessly. Limbs tore at him. Logs and boulders threatened to bring the dun down. He had gone only a short way when he began to tire. The thought of pitching off and being crushed to bits under a host of pounding hooves lent him the strength to cling on.
In his wake, the rumbling swelled to thunderous proportions. Brush crackled and splintered. Small trees were shattered and went down.
Singly, a longhorn was formidable. In a herd of over two thousand, they were a force of nature that couldn’t be contained.
And that force was nipping at Sam’s heels.
He looked back aghast at a moving wall of heads and horns and driving legs. He was barely twenty yards in front of them and they were gaining.
“Ride, Sam!” Lorette bawled. “In God’s name, ride!”
What did she think he was doing? Sam thought. His shoulder throbbed and he was breathing heavy and his arms were becoming leaden but he was riding the best he could. He avoided a cedar, went through some oaks.
The rumble grew louder. He was afraid to look, afraid that the longhorns were almost on top of him.
Lorette yelled something but Sam didn’t catch what she said. A feeling of light-headedness came over him. He found it difficult to focus. He shook his head to clear it, but that only made the feeling worse.
Sam was on the verge of passing out. His wound, the loss of blood, was taking its toll. He thought of his ma and his sisters and choked down a sob. He would have liked very much to see them again. The light-headedness grew worse. The woods spun. His gorge rose and he tasted bile. His hand slipped off the saddle horn. He tried to clamp his legs tighter to keep from falling. He failed.
Sam heard Lorette scream. The last thing he felt was her hand on his arm. He tried to say her name but a black pit opened and he fell headlong into it. He didn’t fall far. A jerk pulled him back into the sunlight.
He was still on his horse. His reins were in Lorette’s hand.
Ahead reared an enormous boulder. Sam figured she would go around it, and she did, but she reined up on the other side. Springing from her saddle, she gripped his arm and his shirt and yanked him down beside her. He almost fell. The world spun worse, and the next thing he knew, he was on the ground, on his back. Lorette’s arm was under him and she was cradling his head to her bosom. In her other hand were the reins to the dun and the mare.
The horses were side by side, quaking with terror, their eyes wide and their nostrils flaring.
Sam became aware of the loudest thunder yet, an assault on his ears that threatened to burst his eardrums. He heard bawling and snorts and tasted dust in his mouth. The reek of cattle was overpowering. He was sure he was about to be trampled into the dirt.
His eyelids fluttered, and for a few moments he couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing.
The giant boulder, almost as high as a barn door and just as wide, was all that stood between them and the horde of longhorns sweeping past on either side.
The cattle barely noticed them. The panicked animals would run miles before they tired.
Sam put his hand down and felt the earth under him shake. The dust got into his throat, and he coughed. He didn’t mind when Lorette pulled him closer, didn’t mind when she kissed him on the forehead.
The thunder went on and on.
Sam tried to sit up but he was too weak.
Finally the rumbling faded. The number of longhorns dwindled, becoming a trickle and then only one or two at a time. Not until over a minute had gone by without a longhorn running past was it apparent they were safe.
The woods were blistered and broken. Flattened brush formed a carpet of crushed plants. Busted branches were scattered about. Here and there, dust rose.
“Let me help you,” Lorette said. Letting go of the reins, she propped him against the boulder, paying special mind to ease his shoulder gently. “There,” she said, and touched his cheek. “How’s that, hand
some?”
“You saved me,” Sam said.
Lorette smacked the boulder. “This here saved the both of us. We were almost goners.”
“You could have gotten away without me but you didn’t,” Sam said. Clutching her hand, he caressed her fingers.
“Oh, my,” Lorette said. “What’s this?”
“I think I love you,” Sam said.
“You think?”
“You know what I mean,” Sam said hoarsely.
“Yes, I do,” Lorette said. “About time you admitted it.”
Sam was too mesmerized by her beauty to say anything.
“All it took was an arrow through your body and a stampede to bring you to your senses.”
“I won’t fight it anymore,” Sam said. “I’m yours if you want me.”
Lorette bent, looked him in the eyes, and grinned. “Forever and ever,” she said.
Chapter 66
Within moments of jabbing his spurs, Luke Burnett realized they weren’t going to reach the hills to the south before the longhorns reached them. “Head west!” he hollered, and reined around.
Luke hoped the others heard him above the cattle. He didn’t look to see if they had until he was almost to the woods. He saw that his pa and Wylie Kurst were following him, and further back, Thaxter—but to his dismay, Sam and Lorette were still trying to reach the scrub to the south.
“Sam, no!” Luke shouted.
Whether Sam and Lorette heard or turned on their own, they changed direction. He lost sight of them once they entered the trees.
Luke was well ahead of the herd and intended to keep it that way. The first hill he came to, he went up it as if it wasn’t there. His sorrel possessed superb stamina, and he had confidence it would leave the cattle eating its dust.
Wylie Kurst had a good horse, too, and wasn’t far behind. “We should let Thax catch up!” he hollered.
Luke shook his head. Thaxter and Harland had been fools to think they could stop the stampede.
Ralph Compton Texas Hills Page 25
