Open Range Fury

by George Arthur

  The Forgotten Land

  A hardened frontiersman, known only as Bannock, and his friend Chet Butler are escorting members of a religious sect, the Children of God, through the wastes of Sonora in northern Mexico. The colonists, eager to be free from persecution, have fled the USA in search of a new home. Unfortunately for the strict pacifists, a band of raiding Comanches finds them first. Following a desperate battle, Bannock flees for his life through the desert. After a tortuous journey he stumbles, more dead than alive, upon an old Spanish mission, long abandoned by its priests. In their place is a small settlement of poorly armed peons, barely scraping a living, and in permanent fear of Indian marauders. Building a bond with his saviours, Bannock reluctantly decides that he is all done with running, and that whatever terrors the ‘Comanche Moon’ brings, they will face them together!

  By the same author

  Blood on the Land

  The Devil’s Work

  The Iron Horse

  Pistolero

  The Lawmen

  The Outlaw Trail

  Terror in Tombstone

  The Deadly Shadow

  Gone West!

  A Return to the Alamo

  Taggart’s Crossing

  A Hell of a Place to Die

  Death on the Bozeman

  Bone Treasure

  Western Union

  The Lords of the Plains

  The Forgotten Land

  Paul Bedford

  ROBERT HALE

  © Paul Bedford 2018

  First published in Great Britain 2018

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2775-4

  The Crowood Press

  The Stable Block

  Crowood Lane

  Ramsbury

  Marlborough

  Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.bhwesterns.com

  Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

  The right of Paul Bedford to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This e-book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Author’s Note

  This book is based on a short story that I wrote at the tender age of seventeen, which unbelievably is now forty-five years ago. How time flies!

  Chapter One

  The man known only as Bannock stared out over the desolate terrain and sighed deeply. Every move that he made seemed to extract more sweat from his weary body, and yet he knew there would be no relief until the sun went down. Under the meagre shade of his hat brim, hard eyes that were never still unremittingly scanned his surroundings. He had discovered long before that out on the frontier even a moment’s inattention could be more than enough to get him killed, and so he had adopted the mountain man’s survival routine of habitual watchfulness.

  As his horse whinnied beneath him, he muttered, ‘Yeah, yeah, so we’re both thirsty.’

  In truth, he couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been. The relentless, searing heat seemed to be grilling his innards. Only unforgiving and apparently endless desert lay before him – and yet unbelievably this was what his charges had come in search of. Their stated objective was isolation from anything human, and by God they’d certainly achieved that.

  Sonora, in the Year of Our Lord 1843, was sparsely populated by anyone’s reckoning. Spanish missionaries had formerly ventured into this land, but some of their savage parishioners had proven too much even for their dogged persistence. With Mexico City far, far away to the south, the region suffered under the maxim ‘out of sight, out of mind’. Beset by the depredations of various wild tribes, and yet insufficiently profitable to justify the expense of military protection, it had effectively been left to its own devices. And yet there was always someone prepared to take a chance on land forsaken by others.

  Leather creaked slightly, as Bannock shifted his weight in the well-worn saddle. The sound of shod hoofs had reached his ears, and he knew without turning that it could only be his companion coming to join him. Perversely, it was at that very moment that the one thing he had dreaded above all else came to his attention. About to toss a casual insult in the other man’s direction, he was abruptly distracted by movement on the horizon. A great deal of movement!

  A large band of horsemen had swept into view, and as the dust settled around them, they casually sat their animals, scrutinizing him as a spider might a fly caught in its web. Despite the gruelling temperature, a chill abruptly enveloped his lean body, accompanied by an involuntary tremor that could only have been generated by past experience. For only one tribe possessed the arrogance to ride so blatantly through open country, as though they had nothing to fear from anyone. Had he been an imaginative individual, he might have wished for the ground to swallow him up, but Bannock had long before ceased to take account of anything other than harsh realities.

  Turning his head slightly, he asked of his friend, ‘You see ’em?’

  ‘I see ’em.’

  ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘Just looking us over . . . for now.’

  ‘That’s what I figured.’

  For a long moment the two men sat their horses and, controlling their very real alarm, watched the distant figures. Both knew better than to overtly display any fear when confronting members of the savage tribes. Yet the ‘Anglos’ couldn’t remain there forever, and finally Bannock turned to scrutinize his companion. Chet Butler didn’t look anything like the archetypal spare, rangy frontiersman. Naturally muscular, he was built like a house side, and a darned big one at that. His features appeared to have been hewn out of granite, and yet he displayed laughter lines that hinted at a softer side. Sadly, there was nothing even vaguely amusing about the sight before them.

  ‘Apaches or Yaqui, maybe?’ he queried.

  Bannock emphatically shook his head. ‘There’s only one native peoples that really chill me to the bone.’

  ‘Comanches!’ Butler exclaimed. ‘This far west?’

  His companion nodded grimly. ‘Why not? They’ve travelled plenty further than this on their murder raids. Think about it. Along the Comanche Trace, out of Comancheria. Then across the Rio Grande, and through Santa Elena Canyon into Mexico. Piece of pie to them.’ He spat in the dust expressively, before adding, ‘As you well know. Anyhu, I’ve had my fill of this eyeballing shit. We hired on as guides, so let’s give some guidance.’ With that, he gently tugged on the reins and wheeled his mount about.

  Together, yet apart, they retraced their steps. There was absolutely no point in attempting to hide their trail. The Indians who were undoubtedly following them would be able to do so over just about any terrain. And it was highly likely that they already knew about the wagon train.

  The extended column of wagons moved slowly, wallowing in its own dust like an ageing reptile. Drawn by long teams of mules, the heavy conveyances relentlessly creaked and rattled their way on a southwesterly heading. The frequently obstinate beasts had been chosen at Bannock’s insistent suggestion. Although not as large and strong as oxen, they were much more resilient in harsh conditions. With every stone and rut a major obstacle, the overlanders trudging alongside had instructions to remove any rocks from the path – though recently more often than not they just ignored them. Exhaustion had a way of sapping the spirit.

  To reduce the
weight on board, men, women and all but the youngest children had long accepted the need to walk, but after hundreds of miles that had taken its toll. Footwear had worn thin, and in some cases was pitiably non-existent. Their overall appearance was unremarkable, similar to any other settlers making the long, dangerous journey to a new home . . . with one startling exception. There was a complete visible absence of firearms. Instead of long rifles, the men carried stout wooden staves with which to beat or fend off snakes and other troublesome critters. Apparently unwilling or unable to hunt for food, they had brought with them a dwindling herd of cattle, to be slaughtered when fresh meat was required to enhance the monotonous diet.

  With nearly everyone on foot, the arrival of their leader on horseback always created a slight frisson of excitement, a fact of which he was not unaware. Joshua Wilson was a big, rawboned individual, whose deep-set eyes burned with a strange and often times disturbing intensity. It was he who had instigated the long trek west, although few amongst the men folk would disagree that it had been necessary. For the ‘Children of God’ had suffered persecution in every part of the United States they had attempted to establish themselves. Even Texas, currently an independent republic, had displayed little inclination to accommodate them. And so, after a great deal of soul-searching, the ‘Children’ had taken the momentous decision to try their hand in Northern Mexico. In past times, the Mexicans had been known to welcome settlers from the north, but more important was the fact that these latest arrivals were seeking land that no others had a use for. That way they stood a chance of being left in peace.

  ‘Move those rocks, my friends,’ Wilson instructed loudly. ‘Do not slacken from your task. We are all weary, but that’s no excuse for a broken axle.’

  A male voice called out from the far side of the lead wagon. It was the accepted rule that all the men kept to the right of the wagons, and the women to the left, to preserve their modesty when attending to a call of nature. ‘The gentiles are returning, Joshua.’

  Wilson nodded. ‘Happen they’ll have news of a waterhole, where we can make camp for the night.’ He had no great liking for the two often-times profane guides, but he had to admit that so far on the journey they had proved indispensable.

  ‘If you ask me, God’s lost interest in this crew,’ Butler remarked sagely, as they approached the slow-moving wagon train.

  ‘I didn’t,’ Bannock retorted.

  ‘This sure has to be the quietest party I’ve ever escorted,’ the other man persisted. ‘No cussing of any sort, an’ nobody shooting snakes. It just don’t seem natural. I recall that last wagon train I took along the Platte River Road. Every minute of every God-damn day they were taking pot shots at some reptile or other. And there was always some silly bastard who managed to blow off his big toe.’

  His friend grunted. ‘Well, if they don’t do exactly as we say tonight, they’ll be as quiet as the grave come morning.’

  As the two men reined in before the leader of the sect, Bannock fastened his gaze meaningfully on the other man. He had a lot to impart, but it was Wilson who got in first. ‘Do I take it that you have located fresh water?’ he inquired somewhat ponderously.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ Bannock retorted. ‘What we did find was a shitload of trouble, and it’s headed your way.’

  The other man’s bushy eyebrows rose imperiously. Not for the first time, he had obviously taken exception to either the tone or content of his guide’s report . . . or quite possibly both. On this occasion, however, he wasn’t given the chance to comment.

  ‘We’ve been discovered by the orneriest creatures on God’s creation. And I reckon they’ll be down your throat well before first light.’

  Bannock’s unmistakable gravity gave the religious leader certain pause for thought. Unconsciously glancing around, he asked, ‘Who are they, and what are their intentions?’

  Chet Butler couldn’t contain himself. ‘They’re most likely Pehnahterkuh Comanches from around the Edwards Plateau in Texas. Their certain intentions are to kill, rape, loot, burn and torture. They’ll also carry off any of your women and children that they take a fancy to. Believe me, mister, you ain’t seen anything like them before!’

  Wilson shook his head in disbelief, before turning to the other guide. ‘Mister Bannock, I hired you two gentlemen to lead us to the Promised Land, not bring back fanciful tales with which to frighten our children. Do you honestly expect me to believe any of what your companion here has just told me?’

  That man snorted incredulously, but Bannock was quick to defend him. ‘Oh, you’d better believe him, Mister Wilson. Because if you don’t, having your hair lifted really will be the least of your worries.’ That last was uttered with such sincerity that only a simpleton could have dismissed it, and whatever else he was, the sect leader was not that.

  Wilson peered at his guide with a certain amount of apprehension. It finally appeared as though the gravity of the situation was sinking in. ‘If there is danger such as you say, what do you propose that we do about it?’

  Bannock drew in a deep breath. He finally seemed to be making some headway. ‘First off, you circle the wagons. Here and now. Fresh water will have to wait. Pack them tight, nose to tail, with all your animals inside the circle, so they can’t be run off. Next, get some pitch torches into the ground at intervals around the perimeter, so come nightfall the devils will know that we’re ready for them. Then throw away those silly sticks you’ve been toting, and break out every rifle and shotgun you possess.’

  The other man gazed at him in astonishment. ‘There are no firearms of any description in any of the wagons. I told you that when we first set out. We abhor violence of any kind.’

  Butler laughed out loud. ‘We thought you was just funning with us, mister. What sort of lame-brained fool would cross this land without having a gun or three to hand?’

  His companion fiercely massaged his temple, as though trying to make sense of what he had just heard. It was only with difficulty that Bannock kept his voice calm and level. ‘Whatever your beliefs, there’s no gainsaying that trouble has caught up with you,’ he unrelentingly announced. ‘So you’re gonna have to turn mean. Real mean. Chet and I are packing quite a lot of shooting irons. If you people work with us, we might just be able to bluff those heathen sons of bitches into thinking this wagon train’s too much to handle.’

  Wilson shook his head emphatically. The fact that all the wagons had halted, and many of his people were listening to Bannock’s dire prophecies, didn’t seem to faze him in the slightest. ‘I appreciate your concern, my friend, but you really don’t seem to comprehend what we stand for at all. We are totally committed to non-violence. That is why we have come all the way out here, away from the rowdy aggression and intolerance of the United States. These Comanches that you talk of are surely just simple peoples, afraid for their own safety. They believe that we mean them harm. If I greet them with open arms, and assure them of our peaceful intentions, I have no doubt that they will leave us be.’

  As Butler uttered a hoot of derision and turned away, Bannock glanced around at the gathering settlers. ‘Now you pilgrims listen to me, and listen good. Your leader may be well intentioned, but he has no idea of what you’re up against. I do. Trust me, when I say that the only way for you to survive this night is to work with us and fight back.’

  A sea of dusty, sweat-stained faces absorbed his words, but not one man reacted as he had hoped. Most just shook their heads in bewilderment. Then, quite bizarrely considering the circumstances, they appeared to simply lose interest and turned their attention to other tasks.

  With frustration turning to raw anger, the frontiersman’s eyes suddenly settled on a particularly appealing young girl standing next to the lead wagon. Natural curls were enhanced by the delightful red bonnet protecting her from the sun’s rays, and her adorable features wore a look of innocence that could only be fleeting in such a harsh world. Seizing on her likely fate, he abruptly advanced on a startled Joshua Wilson. Flecks
of spittle flew from Bannock’s mouth, as he unleashed a tirade.

  ‘You see her?’ he demanded. ‘If she doesn’t die in the first rush, she’ll like as not get carried off by some Comanche buck. He’ll treat her worse than a dog, and let the old women burn holes in her flesh just for the hell of it. And then, and only if she’s really lucky, she might get adopted by the tribe, but more likely they’ll sell her off to some band of Comancheros from New Mexico. Either way, she’ll very quickly be unrecognizable as a white girl, and all because you ain’t got the guts to fight back.’ Even as he spoke, Bannock was aware of tears welling up in the girl’s eyes, but there could be no help for it. He was doing his damnedest to provoke the sect leader.

  That individual was indeed getting angry, but sadly not enough and not for the right reasons. Wiping Bannock’s saliva from his face, he admonished, ‘You are frightening the girl for no good reason. I will thank you to cease immediately and leave us. You are no longer welcome in our company.’

  The other man clenched his right fist, as though about to strike. ‘Well, that just about cuts it. You really are one stupid, ornery son of a bitch. What is it that gives you the right to risk their lives like this?’

  A strange serenity appeared on Wilson’s face, as he half turned towards his ‘flock’ and spread his arms in apparent supplication. ‘They have given me the right.’

  Bannock’s scorn turned to resignation, as he abruptly realized that there was simply no getting through to such a fanatic. Without another word, he turned on his heels and rejoined his companion. Together they moved off until out of earshot of the ‘Children of God’.

  ‘I don’t recall you ever stringing that many words together before,’ Butler slyly remarked. ‘Just remind me why we took on this job in the first place.’