by J. T. Edson
However, the chance had to be taken. If not, either Dusty or Waco would die. While one of them kept the Kid covered, the other soldier would turn and shoot at their companions’ attackers. Sure enough, the sergeant was already swinging his attention back to the Kid and the trooper made as if to throw up and sight his carbine towards Dusty.
Cutting loose with a ringing Pehnane scalp-yell, the Kid hurled himself into motion. He went forward in a swift dive, aiming for the sergeant’s legs. So swiftly did he move that he passed under the barrel of the Colt as its wielder tried to throw down on him. Enfolding his arms about the yellow-striped, blue breeches’ knees, the Kid jerked them together and heaved. Thrown off balance, the non-com sent a bullet harmlessly into the air. Then his back smashed on to the ground with enough force to jolt all the air from his lungs. Wriggling forward with desperate speed, the Kid tried to drop alongside the dazed non-com and used his body as a shield. From the rapid way in which the third trooper was turning and handling the Springfield, the Kid would not be fast enough.
Having disposed of Brill, Dusty continued to move with planned alacrity. He put himself in Kitson’s place and decided that the officer would expect him to keep the trooper between them. So he went the other way. That carried him in the direction of the fire. Dusty was gambling on Kitson being taken by surprise, but also that he would remain calm enough to think.
Baffled by Dusty’s actions, Kitson attempted to change his point of aim. Instantly a difficulty arose. If he fired and missed, his bullet would fly towards the—as he assumed—innocent people around the fire. Rather than endanger the women, the lieutenant was determined to be certain of where his lead would end its flight.
With the Springfield lifting and lining at him, the Kid figured that his life expectancy was getting shorter by the second. The shot which cracked out did not come from any Army carbine. Struck on the fore grip by a bullet the Springfield spun unfired from the trooper’s hands. He gave a yelp of surprise and spun around to see who had intervened. Although his right hand was clawing at the flap of his revolver’s holster, he refrained from completing the motion.
Standing inside the wagon, left knee bent and its foot resting on the back of the driver’s seat, Belle Starr cradled the butt of her Winchester Model of 1866 carbine in the firing position. Smoke curled from its muzzle, which did not mean that it was now harmless. Unlike the single-shot Springfield issued to the Cavalry, her weapon was a twelve-shot repeater. Down and up flicked her right hand, operating the loading lever which automatically ejected the empty case, cocked the hammer and fed a live cartridge into the chamber. She made the movement with such deft ease that the Winchester .44/28 caliber barrel never wavered in its alignment on the soldier’s chest.
Belle had guessed at Dusty’s predicament, and so had been prepared to lend a hand at the opportune moment. Collecting her carbine from the wagon, she had remained concealed and cut in most effectively to save the Kid’s life.
Throwing a grateful glance at his rescuer, the Kid rolled from the sergeant and snatched up the other’s discarded Peacemaker. Usually the Indian-dark Texan professed to despise the new metallic-cartridge Colt, but he admitted silently that one of them could feel right comforting to a man’s hand given the correct conditions.
Advancing slightly to the right of Kitson, Dusty raised the borrowed carbine vertically and flung it at him. It struck the officer’s gun-wrist with numbing force. Deflected aside and downwards, the Colt cracked. Dirt erupted a few feet from Kitson’s feet as the bullet plowed in. Giving the officer no time to recover, Dusty changed direction. Gliding in, he clamped both hands on to Kitson’s right wrist. Carrying the trapped limb into the air, Dusty pivoted below it and snapped it downwards sharply. Unable to help himself, Kitson felt his feet leave the ground. Turning upside-down in mid-flight, he landed rump-first and lost his hold on the revolver. Releasing his grip, Dusty scooped up the Colt. Cocking its hammer, he turned to see if his amigos required assistance.
Going by all appearances, the Kid and Waco had contrived to deal with their share of the soldiers and were unharmed. The blond youngster was sitting up and lowering the carbine he had been lining on Kitson. Knowing Waco’s sense of loyalty, Dusty figured that the lieutenant had come mighty close to being shot. Beyond a scared-looking trooper and recumbent sergeant, the Kid was rising. He looked a mite guilty as he noticed Dusty’s pointed glance at the long barreled Peacemaker in his hand.
‘I figured it’d make a good club,’ the Kid excused himself.
‘Most times he wouldn’t even say that,’ grinned Waco, following the direction of Dusty’s gaze and guessing what had prompted the Kid’s comment.
From his companions, Dusty turned his attention to the rest of the camp. Giving a grateful nod to Belle in passing, he studied the people from Hell. Emma Nene’s face showed a mixture of disappointment and relief. All the saloon girls had stood up and none hid her pleasure at seeing that the three Texans were back in control of the situation. Worry etched lines on Hubert’s face as he waited to see how the ‘Caxton brothers’ and ‘Comanche Blood’ would deal with the soldiers. By all accounts, they had wiped out a colonel and his escort to steal a payroll. So they would be unlikely to let the cavalrymen survive. Smarter than the girls, Hubert could foresee bad trouble ahead if the lieutenant and his men were murdered. Yet he knew of no way that he could prevent it happening.
Only Giselle Lampart appeared unmoved, either by the Texans’ escape or over the soldiers’ possible fate. Small, brunette, with a beautiful, vivacious face, she wore a gingham dress that suggested her figure would have matched that of Belle or Emma if she had been their height. Her eyes darted around in an inquisitive manner and Dusty sensed that she was waiting eagerly for him to order the cavalrymen’s deaths.
‘Well!’ Kitson gritted, rising to face Dusty. ‘Get on with it, you murdering son-of-a-bitch.’
‘Like I said,’ the small Texan replied, accepting the insult as having been spoken by a man under great stress. ‘Could be you’ve made a mistake.’
Shaking his head to clear it, Brill swung towards Dusty. Hate blazed on the soldier’s face. Unmindful of the revolver in the small Texan’s hand, the surly trooper clawed open his holster. Something hissed viciously through the air. A screech burst from Brill’s lips and, forgetting the weapon he had meant to draw, his hands clutched wildly at the feathered shaft of an arrow which had penetrated his chest so deeply that its barbed head had emerged at the back.
War-whoops shattered the night and several Kweharehnuh Comanche warriors burst into the firelight from all sides of the camp.
Chapter Four – Get the White Witch!
The attack was launched with typical Nemenuh speed, savagery and deadly intent. While there was not time for an accurate trail count, the Kid figured that at least two dozen assorted tehnaps and tuivitsis were boiling out from the places of concealment they had selected in a circle around the clearing. He noticed other things, his mind ticking them off automatically even as he prepared to defend himself.
Despite most of the Comanches’ clothing having been made from the hides of pronghorn antelopes, which labeled them as Kweharehnuh to the Kid’s eyes, only a few braves carried firearms. That fact gave the Kid less comfort or satisfaction than might have been expected. He knew that the people of Hell had presented every Kweharehnuh warrior with a repeating rifle or carbine and a regular supply of ammunition to go with it. If some of the attackers—the majority in fact—had elected to lay aside their Winchesters or Spencers, it was because they intended to count coup by personal contact. Doing so rated far higher in a Comanche’s estimation than when one was claimed after standing back to take an enemy’s life with a bullet or an arrow.
No matter what kind of weapons they were carrying, the braves displayed a mutually determined eagerness to come to grips with the hated white people around the campfire.
Screams of fright broke from the saloon girls. Instead of acting in a sensible manner, five of the six scatter
ed wildly like chickens spooked by a diving Cooper’s hawk. Acting in blind panic, the Mexican girl who had been assigned to keep the Kid company in Hell ran straight to her death. A grizzled tehnap rammed his war lance into her body and gutted her with casual, deft ease.
Clenching her fists like a male pugilist, Emma Nene stood her ground. Letting out a screech, Giselle Lampart buckled at the knees and sank to crouch motionless. With his right hand fanning towards the butt of his holstered Colt, Hubert started to move in his employer’s direction. While scared, Red showed a better grasp of the situation than her fellow workers. Instead of fleeing blindly, she darted rapidly in search of Waco’s protection.
Lurching into a sitting position, the sergeant grabbed instinctively at his empty holster. An expression of horror creased his leathery face as he realized that he was unarmed. Deprived of his carbine by Belle’s bullet, the second of the Kid’s would-be captors tried to draw his revolver. Shooting on the run, one of the firearm-toting minority sent a Spencer bullet into the soldier’s head.
Disturbed by the sudden commotion, the horses bucked, reared, snorted and generally displayed their disapproval. The animals owned by Dusty’s party had been secured to a stout picket line and it held firm against their struggles. Having been eager to arrest the three ‘outlaws’, Kitson had ordered his men to leave their horses with the reins trailing. Normally that would have kept the well-trained remounts motionless. Fright overrode training and the cavalry horses went bounding into the darkness.
Not one of the braves gave the departing horses as much as a glance, although any of the animals would have been a valuable piece of booty.
Taking in the precarious nature of their situation with a swift glance, Dusty Fog responded with his usual speed. He held Lieutenant Kitson’s revolver and so had the means to protect himself—but the officer was unarmed and would rate high on the attackers’ list of victims.
‘Here, mister!’ Dusty snapped and tossed the long-barreled Cavalry Model Peacemaker to Kitson.
Although startled and puzzled by such an action from a man he believed to be a cold-blooded killer, the officer grabbed for and caught the weapon around its frame. He transferred his right hand to the walnut handle and prepared to sell his life dearly.
Having provided the officer with the means of self-preservation, Dusty gave thought to obtaining the same for himself. Turning, he hurtled through the air in a rolling dive towards his own weapons. Even as he went down, he saw a wild-eyed tuivitsi rushing in his direction and holding a razor-sharp, spear-pointed war-lance ready to strike.
Hitting the ground on his left side and with his back to the lance carrier, Dusty closed his fingers around the matched Colts’ bone grips. Rolling to face his assailant as the lance rose high to gain impetus for its thrust, Dusty flung aside the gunbelt and freed the four and three-quarter inch barrels from the holsters. Thumb-cocking the hammers while lying flat on his back, Dusty angled the guns upwards to where the brave was preparing to drive home the lance. Both revolvers spat at the same moment. Struck in the center of the chest, the tuivitsi was flung backwards and down.
Hearing Red’s scream as he bounded to his feet, Waco swung his gaze in search of her. What he saw brought an instant response. A pursuing warrior had caught up with the girl, gripped her by the hair and was dragging her backwards. Up swung the brave’s tomahawk as the girl toppled to the rear. Waco flung the acquired Springfield to the aim and squeezed its trigger. With the back of his skull shattered where the bullet had burst out, the Kweharehnuh released the girl’s hair and collapsed. Rolling on to her hands and knees with frantic haste, Red looked back at her attacker. Letting out a shriek, she flopped face forward in a faint.
There was no time for Waco to display concern over Red’s indisposition. He held an empty weapon, for which he possessed no ammunition. That was not a good way to be situated under the circumstances. Tossing the Springfield aside, he darted to where he had laid down his gunbelt.
Believing that he had caused the blond ride-plenty’s flight, a whooping young tuivitsi gave chase. Waco heard the rapidly approaching thud of feet and spun to face his pursuer. Around swung the tuivitsi’s tomahawk in a horizontal slash aimed at taking the blond’s head from his shoulders. In his inexperience, the brave was overconfident. So he was taken by surprise by his would-be victim’s rapid and unexpected response.
Instead of standing petrified until killed, Waco ducked under the blow. Still crouching, he lunged and butted his skull into the tuivitsi s belly. As breath belched from the Comanche’s lungs, the blond wrapped both arms about his bare thighs. Straightening up suddenly, Waco raised the tuivitsi and released his hold at the height of the other’s elevation. Expecting the Indian to crash helplessly, Waco once more turned and sprang towards his gunbelt.
Trained almost from birth to ride bucking horses, including numerous lessons in how to fall off without being injured, the tuivitsi contrived to light down on his feet. The impetus of the throw caused him to run forward several steps, but he retained his grip on the tomahawk’s handle. Twirling around, he charged once more at the Texan.
Snatching out his right hand Colt in passing, Waco pivoted to meet the attack. The tuivitsi was closing fast and with a fanatical determination that would not be halted by less than death. There was neither the time nor the need for Waco to take a careful aim. Assuming a crouching posture, with his right elbow locked tight against his side, Waco flashed across his left hand to draw back and release the hammer. Three times, so fast that the shots could hardly be detected as separate sounds, Waco made the fanning motion. Each .44 bullet ploughed into the tuivitsi's torso and turned his advance into a reeling, uncontrolled retreat.
Before Hubert could complete his draw, he was impaled by an arrow. Running past the front end of the wagon, a stocky war-bonnet chief nocked another arrow to the string of the bow he carried.
‘Get the white witch!’ he roared, starting to raise the arrow in Emma Nene’s direction.
Hearing and understanding the words, taken with the sight of the chief’s obvious interest in Emma, Belle lined her carbine. It barked and the flat-nosed bullet passed between the trailing ends of the head-dress to shatter the man’s spinal column. He went down with his bow still undrawn.
‘He’s sure got old Emma’s character off well,’ Belle mused as she threw the carbine’s lever through its reloading cycle.
A harsh ripping sound from behind caused Belle to spin around. Although the visibility inside the wagon was poor, she could make out that its closed, fastened rear flaps were shaking violently. Guessing that a Comanche was trying to gain access, she was faced with the problem of how to stop him. Then she saw a dull glitter as a knife’s blade pierced the canvas. Four times, as fast as she could work the lever and squeeze the trigger, muzzle blasts illuminated the interior. Holes appeared in a vertical line across the flaps above the knife. A scream of pain followed the third shot. The knife was withdrawn suddenly. Its departure was followed by a thud and violent thrashing sound. Belle decided that these had been caused by the intruder falling and making violent, convulsive motions in his agony.
Satisfied that she had nothing further to fear from that direction, Belle swiveled once more to the open end of the canopy. Partially dazzled by the flashes of burning powder erupting from the carbine’s muzzle, she saw a brave had caught Emma by the arm. Instead of striking the blonde down, he thrust her from him and sprang towards the crouching figure of Giselle Lampart.
Belle snapped off a shot which missed, due to the brave bending and taking hold of the brunette’s left arm. Jerking down the lever, the lady outlaw felt something snap inside the carbine. Instead of completing its various reloading functions, the mechanism stayed stubbornly open. Having experienced such a sensation on another—although less demanding—occasion, Belle knew that one of the toggle-links had broken. It was a defect which plagued the earlier models of Winchester. 14
Cursing furiously, Belle dropped the useless carbine. Down dipped h
er right hand and drew the Manhattan Navy revolver from its contoured holster. Then she prepared to spring from the wagon and move to a distance at which she might hope to hit something with the handgun.
Like Dusty, the Kid did not leave a soldier defenseless against the attackers. Dropping the revolver into the sergeant’s lap, he leapt to retrieve his own rifle. A brave, taller and slimmer than most Nemenuh, came leaping to intercept the Kid with a tomahawk lifting ready to hurl into flesh.
Gathering up the Winchester, with his right hand grasping the fore grip, the Kid slid his left forefinger into the trigger guard and the other three through the lever’s ring. Raising the rifle to waist level, he shot the brave with the muzzle not three feet from the other’s bare chest. Already the tomahawk had commenced its downwards swing. Sidestepping as soon as he had squeezed the trigger, the Kid heard the hiss as the blade passed his sleeve harmlessly. Then he saw something that demanded his immediate and undivided attention.
Grasping an arm each, two Kweharehnuh tehnap were dragging Giselle Lampart away from the campfire. Even as the Kid snapped the Winchester’s butt to his shoulder, knowing that shooting from the hip would not serve his needs, he felt puzzled. Not by the attempted abduction; a white woman made an acceptable piece of loot, almost as useful as a mule, but not so valuable as a horse or a gun. So he was not surprised to see the braves attempting to take the brunette with them.
What aroused the Kid’s curiosity was their reason for having run straight past a saloon girl and for shoving Emma Nene aside when both were larger, stronger, and therefore more desirable as work-producing captives than the diminutive Giselle would be.
There was no time for the Kid to debate the problem. If he hoped to save Giselle from a fate worse than death, he had to concentrate. Sighting the Winchester, he shot the brave to the brunette’s left in the head. Smoothly altering his point of aim as he flickered the lever up and down, he tumbled her second abductor in a lifeless heap. Shrieking hysterically, Giselle crumpled between the two dead tehnap.
