Bannock’s arm painfully absorbed a jarring crash, as his rifle’s stock collided with another victim. Swearing obscenely, Butler hurled his empty pistols at the heaving mob, and then unsheathed a long-bladed knife. Rising up to his full height, he slashed back and forth in a lateral arc. The finely honed blade sliced through flesh and muscle, so that screams of pain vied with war cries for ascendancy. For a short time the defenders’ sheer ferocity held back the great mass of Indians. Then Set-tainte and a few others were able to manoeuvre on to the white men’s flanks, and notch their arrows.
Abruptly recognizing that the situation was hopeless, Bannock yelled out, ‘Run for it, Chet. It’s our only hope.’ Still he hadn’t drawn his Colts: in the midst of such frenzied hand-to-hand fighting, he just hadn’t had the opportunity.
‘You first. I’ll hold ’em off,’ Butler bellowed back.
Grabbing hold of a spare powder flask, Bannock turned and powered up out of the trench. His intention was to ascend the small rise and then cover his friend’s retreat with revolver fire. But then the inevitable happened. Now alone, Butler simply couldn’t cover every angle. A lance point penetrated his right thigh, and went deep. Very deep.
Moaning with pain, the massive scout only just managed to stay on his feet. Hurling his knife at his assailant, he had the momentary pleasure of seeing it enter the Comanche’s belly like a skewer. Drawing in a full breath, he hollered, ‘Haul ass, Bannock. They’ve kilt me!’
For a brief moment Bannock watched as the Indians, still believing Butler to be dangerous, swarmed over his friend. ‘I’m mighty sorry I got you into this,’ he muttered, and then took off as though the hounds of hell were pursuing him. Sounds of a fleeting struggle followed on, and then the Comanches uttered a collective shriek of triumph, which could only have signified Chet Butler’s bloody demise.
Chapter Three
Set-tainte angrily scrutinized the dark and bloody ground leading up to the concealed trench. The totally unexpected battle had been short, but incredibly vicious. Men and animals, both dead and terribly wounded, lay at staggered intervals. The ponies would end up being eaten, whilst those survivors that could travel would be taken back to their temporary base camp in the north-east, to be tended by the women. There would be much wailing and self-mutilation in remembrance of the fallen.
His gaze switched to the disfigured corpse of the huge white man. Ideally, Set-tainte would have preferred him taken alive so as to ascertain his identity, and also to exact some satisfaction with long hours of excruciating torture. Unfortunately, in the frenzy of the moment, he had been perceived as too lethal by far, and death had been the only solution. The question was, who were these ferocious fighters? Could it be that they belonged to the hated and feared Tejano Rangers?
After grimly spitting a great gobbet of phlegm into the dust, the war chief pondered his next move. Despite this particular setback, the raid had still been a great success. They had captured much valuable livestock, and many women and children. Those of the latter they didn’t choose to keep would undoubtedly be welcomed in trade by the New Mexican Comancheros. Therefore Set-tainte’s prime responsibility had to be to get them all on the move, along with the injured. And yet he also couldn’t allow the second white man to escape: that one would definitely have to scream out his prolonged death agonies in front of the whole tribe. Abruptly he came to a decision. He could certainly spare ten warriors, and that many mounted men had to be enough to hunt down one lone fugitive on foot.
A long, tormented scream came from over near the now smouldering wagons. His men had returned to the pleasurable task at hand. It might not prove that easy to persuade some of them to break off and pursue a still dangerous white man, but it would happen. Set-tainte needed to obtain retribution, and he possessed enough prestige to enforce his wishes. He had also decided that the fearsome volleygun would be his. A weapon of such destructive power could only enhance his position in the tribe. The bone-crushing practicalities of actually firing the piece could wait for another time.
Like so many of his race, the Comanche chief was an unprepossessing figure when viewed on foot. Short and scrawny, there was nothing to indicate his consummate ability to control the vast territory that his people held in such a vicelike grip. Because it was an indisputable fact that mounted on fleet-footed ponies, he and all his kind had no equal as light cavalry. Such deadly skill had been enough to stop the Spanish in their northward quest for empire. That wasn’t to say, however, that they couldn’t be beaten in a fight.
After long decades of total dominance, the horse Indians had found themselves confronted by a new and deadly foe, armed with repeating weapons. And over the course of the last few years, formerly unheard of reverses had occurred on many occasions in parts of West Texas. Which was why, even as he began mentally to construct his pursuit party, a certain niggling uneasiness refused to leave the dark recesses of his mind.
With his breath coming in short, rasping gasps and his legs turning to jelly, Bannock reluctantly slowed to a walk. There was little point in driving himself to exhaustion. And yet, knowing that pursuit was almost inevitable, he kept glancing back over his shoulder. The first streaks of daylight were showing in the east. It surely couldn’t be long before they came pounding after him. So it was that, as he trudged across the increasingly broken ground, he made a careful scrutiny of his immediate surroundings. Even as he did so, he was able to reload his long rifle, mostly by feel alone.
The land that he was moving into was no longer just featureless desert, or rolling open grassland of the type so favourable to horse Indians. Liberally dotted about with massive Saguaro cacti, it contained rock-strewn rises and bone-dry arroyos carved out by periodic flash floods. All of these features could assist him, come the time of his next desperate battle for survival.
It was just as well that he remained pre-occupied, because otherwise it was quite likely that he would have been overcome with guilt over the death of his only real friend. Since no one could deliver a verdict on whether the two of them would have been discovered or not, he could only assume that his unilateral action had been the sole cause. And for what? To carry out a mercy killing on a child he didn’t even know? Perhaps that, too, had been brought about by guilt. The guilt of not being able to save that child in the first place. After all, he had supposedly signed on to keep them all out of trouble. Really it was just too painful to think about, and best kept locked away until a time when he was no longer in imminent danger. Nevertheless, some things are easier decided on than carried out.
As a great surge of uncontrollable emotion welled up inside him, he suddenly cried out in anguish. ‘Sweet Jesus, what have I done?’
His answer to that came promptly, and from a most unwelcome source. The distinctive sound of fast-moving riders broke in on his tormented thoughts. These unwanted visitors could only have come from the stricken wagon train. In truth, it was amazing that the Comanches had taken so long. Then again, they had doubtless had a great many women to rape!
Anxiously searching for sanctuary, Bannock spied a jumble of modest boulders off to his left. They weren’t much, but they’d have to suffice. Guilty thoughts temporarily left him, for it was entirely possible that he would shortly be joining his friend in hell . . . or wherever men like them ended up!
Although knowing that he had to have been spotted, Bannock moved over to his latest defensive position at a deliberately measured pace. There was fear in his heart a-plenty, but also years of hard-won experience to fall back on. If he was going to produce accurate fire, then he needed to avoid any heavy exertion.
Upon reaching the dubious safety of the waist-high boulders, he knelt down behind one and laid his Hawken on the top of it. Just as on the day before, a chill came over him as he studied his opponents. The menacing group had come to a halt a couple of hundred yards away. There were exactly ten of them. They were well spaced out, and didn’t seem in any all-fired hurry to come to blows. Apaches would have dismounted and crept up o
n him, skilfully utilizing the available cover, but that wasn’t the Comanches’ way.
‘Probably recalling the last time they took a run at me,’ Bannock muttered dryly to steady his fluttering nerves.
Since in reality the warriors were most probably pondering their plan of attack, Bannock had no intention of allowing them that luxury. He wanted to force the pace. Cocking his rifle, he carefully drew a bead on one of the centremost Indians. After squeezing the rear trigger, the front one required only the lightest caress. Breathing in, he suddenly held it and fired.
For an experienced marksman, the result was never in doubt. The ball struck his victim left of centre, penetrating the man’s heart and instantly snuffing out his life. As the warrior toppled backwards off his pony, the others reacted predictably. They knew that their enemy would have to reload before firing again, and so had to reach him first. Splitting into two groups, they vigorously urged their animals up to speed. Five of them swept around Bannock’s right flank, whilst the remainder charged directly for him. The Comanches’ intention was obvious: they were out to catch him in a pincer movement, except that because his murderous intervention had provoked them into premature action, their timing was now hopelessly askew.
Temporarily ignoring their approach, he commenced recharging the muzzle-loader. Instinctively he knew that he wouldn’t get the chance to fire it again before the first of them reached him, but it could well come in useful in the aftermath. Providing, of course, that he survived the attack!
As it happened, he didn’t get time to replace the percussion cap, because the nearest group of four was almost upon him. Leaning the long gun against a boulder, he drew both Paterson Colts from his belt. As he thumbed back the hammers, a retractable trigger dropped down from inside each frame. This was the testing time. Because he hadn’t yet used his revolvers, Bannock hoped that they would come as a lethal surprise to his assailants.
Although acutely aware of the second group swinging around behind him, the lone defender consciously ignored them. Holding his fire until the oncoming Comanches were merely yards away, he abruptly levelled both weapons.
‘God save me from misfires!’ he fervently exclaimed.
Aiming at the riders rather than their ponies, he fired first the left-hand, and then the right-hand weapon. As the Colts bucked in his clutches, two .36 calibre balls slammed into naked flesh in rapid succession. One warrior, about to hurl his lance, fell uncontrollably sideways from his mount. Another grunted and doubled over in pain, the cheap trader musket that he had been about to fire slipping from his grasp.
As a hastily loosed arrow ricocheted off the boulder behind which he sheltered, Bannock tilted both revolvers to right angles, so allowing any fragments of the copper percussion caps to drop clear of the workings. Believing that their foe needed to reload, the two uninjured bucks urged their ponies up the short rise, directly at him. For the solitary white man, this was truly a test of nerve!
Knowing that he still had four chambers left in each weapon, Bannock again levelled them and fired. From the left-hand gun there was merely a muted pop, but mercifully the right-hand one belched forth death. The ball tore away the Comanche’s lower jaw, leaving him flailing about in agony. Horrified at the continued shooting, his surviving companion turned tail and raced to safety. Seemingly this warrior never even considered joining his compatriots on the other flank. Had he been the only one left, Bannock would have attempted to ‘nail’ him with the Hawken, but from the noise behind him, he knew that the second war party was almost upon him. Turning to confront the new threat, he again readied his Colts.
The pain that suddenly erupted in his left side was excruciating. Glancing down, he saw an arrow shaft protruding from his worn clothing. At that point, his desperate battle for survival was on a cusp. Pain and shock could overwhelm him, leading to his ending up staked out on an anthill with his pecker in his mouth, or. . . .
Or he could get real mad. And that’s what happened. Snarling out his defiance, he swung both Colts towards the packed horsemen and indiscriminately opened fire. Each receiving mortal wounds, two ponies buckled beneath their riders, throwing them heavily. Then twice more, Bannock cocked and fired the revolvers, killing one warrior stone dead, and painfully wounding another. As a significant cloud of sulphurous smoke drifted over the killing ground, only one Comanche remained mounted and untouched. And he couldn’t possibly know that the apparently crazed white man was now actually holding empty weapons.
Manically screaming out his bloodlust, Bannock cocked and aimed both Colts at the dismayed warrior, whose nerve promptly deserted him. Brutally yanking on the reins, he turned his pony and raced away without once looking back. That left two warriors stunned on the ground, and one bleeding profusely from a badly gashed forehead. With blood masking his vision, and struggling to remain mounted, he wasn’t an immediate threat.
Discarding the belt guns, Bannock unsheathed his Bowie knife and unsteadily advanced on the temporarily helpless Indians. Without any compunction, he shuffled from one to the other, entwining his fingers in buffalo-greased hair and then viciously slicing through their exposed carotid arteries. As their lifeblood flowed into the dirt, the bodies briefly twitched feverishly before falling still. Then, standing amongst the cadavers, with blood dripping from both his massive blade and his wounded side, he peered up at the sole remaining warrior.
It was this hellish vision that that individual witnessed when he finally wiped the blood from his eyes, and any thoughts of continued aggression instantly left him. Digging his heels in, the terrified Comanche rode past Bannock at speed, following the other two fleeing warriors in the general direction of the burnt-out wagon train.
As the realization hit home that he had actually survived, a great tremor passed through Bannock’s body. Then he felt his legs beginning to wobble. The twin forces of reaction and blood loss were taking effect, but he couldn’t afford to surrender to them just yet. Of the first wave of assailants, three had definitely taken gunshot wounds, but any number of them might still pose a threat.
Unsteadily he wiped his knife blade clean on the breechclout of his nearest victim. Then, staggering back up to his original position, Bannock retrieved his rifle and pressed a fresh percussion cap on to the nipple. Leaning against the boulder, he carefully scrutinized his victims. ‘Broken jaw’ was quite obviously alive, but in so much torment that he was totally incapacitated by it. The buck that he had shot first had a blood-soaked hole directly over his heart and was quite obviously dead. That left the fellow with the musket. He appeared to have been gut shot, but such an injury could take time to kill a man, leaving him in the meantime mad, bad, and infinitely dangerous to approach.
Not wishing to waste powder unnecessarily, Bannock decided to move in a little closer. He had a hankering for the powder flask hanging by a rawhide thong from the warrior’s neck. Groaning from the pain in his side, he cautiously advanced down the low rise. He had barely covered three paces when the wounded Comanche suddenly exploded from the ground in a strange crablike movement. Although hampered by the ball in his belly, the knife in his hand presented a deadly threat that could only be answered in one way.
Swiftly raising the Hawken, Bannock contracted his right forefinger, hard, and watched with relief as his enemy’s skull exploded like a ripe melon. Glancing up at the horizon, he spotted one of the three fugitives momentarily rein in and glance back, before quickly resuming his headlong flight. Grunting, the ailing white man knew that he had to finish the business swiftly, before he passed out. Seizing his rifle by its barrel, he staggered over to ‘broken jaw’. That pathetic creature was on his knees in a world of hurt, and didn’t even look up. His cold-eyed nemesis twice slammed the butt into the side of the helpless individual’s head with great force. Only then did he permit himself to sink to the ground and close his eyes.
Anybody happening upon him now would find easy pickings indeed, but there could be no help for that. Because the man known only as Bannock had tem
porarily exceeded even his formidable limits!
Chapter Four
Little Pepita felt unaccustomed apprehension as she stared around the vast adobe settlement that she knew as home. Although only young, she already possessed the dubious ability of being able to sense the mood of her father and other adults. And what she perceived was both strange and unsettling. Ever since the summer moon had begun to grow large in the night sky, a peculiar dread seemed to have settled over them. They constantly watched the horizon, shaking their heads and muttering darkly. No longer was the spirited girl allowed to stray far from the buildings. It was all very puzzling.
The Catholic mission station of San Marcos, named after a particularly devoted and resolute priest, had at one time been a thriving centre of agriculture and religious observance. But after only a few blissful years of tranquillity, it had been discovered by a party of roving Comanches, and shortly afterwards the raids had started. At first, as though testing the defences, they just involved the theft of animals. But then women and children were carried off, followed by warriors brazenly riding into the mission demanding ransom for their return. The marauding Indians could quite easily have slaughtered all the steadfastly passive inhabitants, but deliberately chose not to, because the mission’s tenuous survival allowed them to continue with their annual depredations.
Far to the south, in Mexico City, the venal individuals who happened to be clinging to power at the time weren’t prepared to spare the soldiers so desperately required to defend the remote settlement. And so, finally, the priests reluctantly accepted the inevitable. San Marcos was abandoned.
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