Battle Fury

by Matt Chisholm

  The Indian who had felled him was jumping his horse through the water toward a cluster of miners on the far bank who appeared to be shooting wildly across the water. Brack ducked down and waded as fast as he could to the far bank. Here, to his great surprise, he came on his dripping horse. Without any hesitating he heaved himself into the saddle and rammed home the spurs. By now the Indians from the far side were jumping their ponies down into the water, having swept through the miners on the west bank of the creek. The night air seemed to be filled with the screams of hurt men and of gunshots. Brack didn’t wait to see any more, but fled away into the darkness.

  A very shaken man reached his startled cowhands out in the valley. They were standing with their carbines in their hands, not knowing what to do, to wait or to go to the camp in search of him. To see their employer alive was a great relief to them, because none of them was eager to ride through the dark into rifle fire.

  He reined in his heaving horse and shouted to them: ‘Get mounted and ride like Hell for the house.’

  ‘What goes on?’ Mike Summers demanded.

  ‘Indians,’ Brack bawled and was gone, spurring north-east along the valley.

  His men didn’t need any second bidding. They had no more wish than their boss to tangle with Indians out here in the dark. As they rode, one young hand said: ‘I thought Indians didn’t never attack at night.’

  Summers yelled back at him: ‘this bunch weren’t told.’

  They reached headquarters with the horses in a lather and, as soon as the bushed animals had been turned lose in the corral, Brack set up his defenses. He put one man in the barn and one in the bunk-house so that anybody riding into the yard would come into a crossfire. The rest took cover in the house, put up the shutters and waited for an attack, praying the Indians would go for the cattle and leave the house alone.

  By the time Brack had given himself a change of clothes and a skinful of whiskey, he felt better. In fact, he started to see the brighter side of the situation. To Mike Summers, he said: ‘Maybe this won’t turn out so bad for us after all, Mike. They could wipe those diggers out and they could go south onto Three Creeks.’ He laughed to think of the Storms beset by Indians.

  Summers was a pretty hard man himself, but he said: ‘there’s women down there, boss.’

  ‘That fact,’ Brack told him softly, ‘never did stop Will Storm doing a thing. Them women of his are worse’n poison.’

  In the still of the night, they could still hear the sound of gunfire from the south-west.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Around dawn, a tired boy on a beat-up mule, both of them slightly wounded, came over into Three Creeks country from Broken Spur with the bad news that not only had cholera broken out in the northern diggings, but the camp had been hit by Indians. The news spread down the creek like wildfire. The news of the cholera spread dread through the gold-seekers, but their more immediate fear stemmed from the activity of the Indians. This being so, they took the action on which they had all agreed.

  As soon as the news reached the lower end of the valley, the miners withdrew from the diggings and gathered at the Storm place. By mutual agreement, command was in the hands of Will Storm and a miner named Lou Harris. Will knew of the latter and, though he didn’t much approve of the man, he knew that his courage wasn’t wanting. Will didn’t take the danger lightly, but he saw little chance of the Indians over-running the house with the small army of men around it. A man was posted with a fast horse on the highest ridge on the west side of the creeks to keep a sharp lookout for savages. Martha and the two girls, with the help of the one woman among the miners, set to work to tear up precious sheets for bandages.

  By noon, firing was heard from the upper part of the valley. It continued off and on for an hour, but after that stillness seemed to hang over the whole valley. During the afternoon, a man rode in from the north to tell them that though the Indians had hit them in the southern tip of their defenses, they had been driven off and had ridden out into the valley and seemed to be busy killing cattle. This didn’t please Will too well. He thought about mounting some of his own crew and going out after the Indians, but he thought that a man’s life was worth more than a few cows. So he stayed where he was and hoped the Utes wouldn’t kill too many before they became tired of the game.

  He was pretty worried about his brother and Joe. He knew they were both more capable than most men of looking after themselves, they had been in more scrapes than he’d had hot dinners, but, just the same, every man had a bullet with his name on it someplace.

  At around that time, the Utes who had ridden into the valley to kill a few of the white man’s cattle for the Hell of it, decided that there was little profit to be gained on Three Creeks. There was a great deal of glory to be attained by attacking the whites at the southern end of the valley, but a whole lot more death. One of the wiliest of their scouts had gone in pretty close to the house down that end and come back with the report that the gold-hunters had mustered at the house and they were armed with a formidable number of rifles. So the Utes decided to take some cows along with them so that their people might feast on fresh beef for a while and they drove them across the two creeks and headed west.

  As they moved slowly because of the cattle, their chief, one Short Bear, who was a cautious man, not only put a man to watch his back trail to watch for pursuit, but sent a man ahead to see that the trail ahead was clear. After they had traveled for a few hours, this advanced scout rode back with some exhilarating news.

  He had ridden the high ridges and, while doing so, he had come on a small white man’s house. In the corrals alongside this house he had seen many fine horses.

  This acted like potent medicine on his audience, for there was nothing a healthy-minded Ute with his blood up and who had been shot at by white men liked more than another man’s horses. And so, leaving a light guard on the cattle, they followed the scout to take back to their camp the most precious loot of all.

  And thus they rode toward Joe Widbee’s shack. And there in that shack, awaiting her man’s return, was his woman Serafina.

  It so happened that Serafina, the former outlaw’s woman whom Joe Widbee had taken for his own, was at the time of their arrival, cleaning her man’s spare rifle at the one table the small cabin possessed. Now this weapon was no great shakes so far as rifles went and held no more than one shell. But under Joe’s tuition, the Mexican Indian girl had learned to shoot it tolerably well. For Joe considered that, as Serafina was left so much on her lonesome while he scoured the hills for wild horses, that she should be able to protect herself.

  When she heard the sound of their ponies’ hoofs, she went to the one window the small cabin possessed and saw them coming up the narrow trail toward her. They slowed at the top of the gradient to view Joe’s horses in the corral with great joy. While some of them headed for the horses, the rest rode on up toward the cabin. Had Serafina been less of a woman than she was or, to put it another way, if she had been of a cooler temperament, she would have availed herself of Joe’s escape hatch at the rear of the building and slipped away into the hills along the shallow gully there which would have offered her enough cover for her escape.

  But Serafina was a gutsy, strong-headed woman who saw only that her man’s horses were about to be stolen. She slammed the door closed, thumbed a shell into the breech of the rifle and snapped it shut. Then she took a handful of shells from the table, ran to the window and fired straight in the colorful bunch of horsemen coming toward her.

  Joe had taught a willing and able pupil. The heavy slug caught a Ute pony in the head and dropped it in its tracks. Its rider was dumped into the dust and every Indian there showed a great inclination to get out of the range of that rifle as fast as his nimble pony would take him. Both this bunch and the men who had gone for the corral, headed back the way they had come.

  Serafina reloaded her rifle and shot the Indian who had been dumped through the body. He kicked a few times and lay still. She then to
ok a few seconds off to consider her position. She knew that those two shots had not finished the matter. In fact, they had no more than started it. Had she slipped away and allowed the Utes to take the horses that would probably have finished the affair there and then. The death of that one man forced the Utes to carry the business to its natural conclusion. The cabin must be burned after being looted, its occupant killed and scalped, the horses driven off. No self-respecting Ute could have done less. And Serafina, who had experienced the raids of the Yaqui and Apache in her native Mexico, knew that.

  Even now, the most sensible thing for her to do was to get away through the rear escape hatch and lie low in the hills. But she wasn’t sensible. Those horses were her man’s livelihood and she didn’t mean any painted savage to get away with them. She could see from her high position that the Indians had bunched lower down the steep hill to consider the situation and to work out how best they could take the cabin without getting any more men hurt. It would not be long, she knew only too well before they would be swarming through the rocks on foot and surrounding the place. She knew too that even if she could drive the horses out of the corral and scatter them, soon or late, the Utes would gather them up.

  She decided on an impossible and reckless plan. She had learned from Joe that in circumstances such as this you must move fast and do the unexpected. She planned to do both.

  She found an old wallet of Joe’s and slung it by its strap over one shoulder and put into it some jerky, some biscuit and a couple of handfuls of shells. Taking one last look at the Indians and checking that they had not yet made up their minds what action to take, she slipped out of the escape hatch and started crawling quickly along the shallow gully, pushing her way through the brush with which it was overgrown.

  At about one hundred paces from the shack, she left the gully and, stooped double, she made her way downhill, circling back toward the corral. Now she could not see the Indians and they could not see her. When she reached the corral fence, she whistled softly for her favorite pony. This was a little paint mare which was a household pet and as tame as anybody could wish for. The paint came at once, trotting eagerly toward her. As soon as the animal was close to the fence, she started cutting at the rawhide that held the poles to the uprights and within seconds she had one pole-length open. The rest of the horses, some fifteen of them, all of which knew her, at once edged their way toward freedom.

  Maybe now, she experienced her first pang of fear. As soon as she was on the mare’s back, the Indians would see her. But that didn’t make her change her mind. Rising to her feet, she tucked up her wide skirts and vaulted onto the little animal’s back. It wore a hackamore and a hair-rope, which was perhaps the most fortunate chance that happened that day. It meant that once she was astride, she had immediate control of the paint. She quickly jumped it across the corral so that she was between the remuda and the Indians and, whirling her mare, she yelled at the top of her voice and sent every horse there on the run through the opening in the corral fence.

  She could hear nothing of the pursuit above the thunder of her own horses’ hoofs, but she knew that the Indians would be in motion. She sent the horse-herd hard downhill into the west, riding recklessly and without thought of her own safety over the treacherous ground, sending them on the mile-long run down into the V-sided valley below. Her only chance, she knew, was to turn the horses south along the narrow valley and try to head them in the general direction of Three Creeks. If she allowed them to run on west and stayed with them before long the Utes would be bound to come up with her and put an end to her.

  The little paint went down that precipitous gradient mostly on its haunches and hopping on stiff forelegs. Dust and stones flew out all around her, after a minute or so had past, some lead from the Indians behind, all sang its lethal music in the hot still air. When the remuda hit the steep-sided valley that was almost a gully, some of them tried to turn north, but Serafina swooped down on them and turned them back on themselves. This wasted valuable time, but she wasn’t going to lose one of those horses unless she had to. Her action was acclaimed by the descending Indians with yells of triumph, for it enabled them to gain on her. Now they saw that she intended to drive the horses south, they angled in that direction to cut her off.

  The one fact in her favor was that the remuda had now bolted and were running with all the speed of badly spooked animals. The little paint was hard put to keep close behind them. Now they were in the narrow valley, they could turn to neither left nor right and they streamed out ahead of her in a frantic run. The yells of the pursuing Indians added to their fears. She was halfway down the valley when she was presented with a second piece of luck. The Indians ran into trouble. Their short cut had brought them into a tangle of rocks and they were forced to swing back again to their former path of descent and this gained about fifty yards for the pursued Serafina.

  When the leader of the horse-herd, a dappled-gray mare reached the mouth of the valley, she kept on going, hitting a wide flat of virgin grassland. The herd seemed to float across it like birds. Serafina had hoped to swing them east, but she knew that she would lose time if she did so. This small plain was about a mile across and on the far side was dense timber in which she knew she would lose some if not all of the horses. But at least, she thought, that might save some of them from the Indians.

  The herd melted into the trees some fifty paces ahead of her and were quickly lost to sight. Serafina looked back and saw that the foremost Indian was some two hundred yards to her rear, quirting his bay pony savagely. The rest were strung out behind him.

  Joe always said: Do what the other feller don’t expect.

  This she decided to do.

  As soon as she was into the trees and out of the sight of her pursuers, she halted the little mare, dropped from its back and slipped into cover behind a tree. She put a spare shell from the satchel between her teeth, waited for the leading Indian to come within easy range and let fly.

  Her luck seemed to be total. True she only hit the horse, but as the animal somersaulted with a slug in its chest, its rider was hurled to the ground with such violence that he lay stunned and out of action.

  Serafina jacked the empty shell case from the breech and reloaded as fast as she knew how. The dropping of their leader had abruptly slowed the pace of the men behind. She sighted carefully on the nearest, soon put a stop to that and had them on the move again. When she looked back, she saw several bright figures burst from the trees. At the sight of her, they yelled and increased their speed.

  Now, she was seriously contemplating leaving the horses to the warriors who set such great store by them. She picked up a few more as she went and was soon driving some ten of them. Their fear, however, seemed to have abated and they no longer ran as if their lives depended on their speed. When she looked back again, she saw that the Indians were gaining on her rapidly. This drove her to consider whether Joe valued her or the horses highest. Maybe it was pure vanity, but she plumbed for herself as the most treasured prize. There was a sweep of hill to her left, marked here and there with boulders and brush and she thought this might offer her the best path of escape. She turned the pinto toward this and put her up it. She reckoned the Indians would fancy some free horses more than a spitfire with a gun.

  She was wrong. Sure, some of the Indians rode on after the horses, but four or five of them swept up the hill behind her. The pinto was starting to show signs of having reached the end of her rope. Her breath was wheezing noisily in her chest and this last steep climb was taking the stuffing out of her. Serafina started to look around for a good spot to fort up and maybe die.

  There were some rocks off to her right and she ran the pinto along the side of the hill toward them. As soon as she reached them she was out of the saddle, down behind the rocks and handing a pile of shells from the satchel on the ground beside her. She hurriedly loaded the old gun and prepared to make a difficult downhill shot.

  The nearest Indian was jumping his pony eagerly up
the hillside, shouting derision at her and fitting an arrow to his bow. She drew a careful bead on him and held her breath, praying that she would make a hit.

  Before she could squeeze the trigger, however, there came a sharp snapping sound from above her and the Indian went untidily out of his crude saddle.

  Serafina stared at the helpless rag-doll figure with unbelieving eyes.

  The other climbing warriors seemed unaware of the loss of their comrade. They came on steadily. Two shots sounded from above and a pony went down in an untidy heap. The rider hit running, lost his footing and went rolling down the hillside. There was a burst of firing from above her and suddenly the Indians had turned back. Those who had gone after the horses had abandoned their loot and were riding rapidly west.

  Serafina crouched there for a moment, dazedly aware only that she had been saved. Then she turned and started up the hill.

  A man was walking down toward her, a rifle in his hands. She had never seen him before. When he came near, she saw that he was a gringo and he was dressed in black clothes that were heavily impregnated with dust. His face was grimed with black powder and his jowl and upper-lip covered with a week’s growth of dark steel-like hair. His eyes were hard, yet he was a handsome man. He stopped and spoke to her, but he spoke in the language of the gringos and she understood only one or two words. She and Joe still conversed in Spanish.

  ‘I do not understand,’ she said in Spanish and she thanked him for saving her.

  He nodded without smiling and walked back up the hill. She followed him. He headed for a great boulder balanced precariously on the side of the hill and, as she came closer, she saw that there were men and horses in its shadow. There was a black man among them and she knew that this man was hers. Her impulse was to run forward with a glad cry of greeting, but at once her animal instincts warned her. There was something wrong here. Joe was watching her, but he was showing no sign of recognition. Then she saw Mart Storm and he too looked at her as if he didn’t know her. Beside these two men and the man she had followed up the hill, there were four other men. They all held rifles in their hands and, as soon as their eyes touched her, she knew that they saw promise of pleasure to come. Her kind were always toys for their appetites.