Open Range Fury

by George Arthur

  ‘I’ll have to take him on trust,’ the American remarked. ‘We can’t risk any practice shots. I don’t want those God-damned dirt worshippers knowing that they’re up against firearms until it’s too late for them to back off. It’s something else that might give us an edge.’ After Luis had translated, he added, ‘What about this musket? Are you game?’

  The Mexican glanced at his daughter before nodding. ‘Sí señor. After all, I am fighting for her life.’

  ‘Damn right you are,’ the other man retorted. ‘Now, what other weapons are there in this place? Both of you ask them. Quickly now. There ain’t no knowing how long we’ve got.’

  Under the joint urging of father and daughter, the villagers produced a mixture of machetes and pitchforks, and one double-barrelled shotgun. That at least had some potential.

  ‘Is there a blacksmith or metal-worker who can saw a length off the barrels?’ Bannock demanded.

  ‘Sí, sí. I can do,’ responded an elderly man eagerly.

  It seemed that the peons were finally being infused by their visitor’s sense of urgency, and his next demand intrigued them. Prowling around the compound like a caged beast, he shouted, ‘Any kind of netting, or coils of rope?’

  It transpired that there was none of the former, but plenty of the latter. ‘Lay it on the ground from side to side in front of the entrance. Two strong men on each end. Use it to trip the ponies. A Comanche on foot is apt to be more reasonable.’

  His two translators were struggling to keep pace, but he ploughed on anyway. ‘Think on this. When they ride in here, we’ll all be fighting for our lives. And if we lose, then your women and children lose as well. Savvy?’

  Such talk definitely hit a collective nerve, and they all stared at him, entranced. And still he hadn’t finished. ‘But all this just ain’t enough to get the drop on a big war party. We need something to really give them pause. I need a container made of wood. Something that we can fill with stones and any small bits of metal you can turn up.’

  Not for the first time that day, Luis was completely baffled. ‘Por que, señor?’

  On this occasion, the lean gringo didn’t say a word. Instead, he produced a large powder flask from his jacket and winked broadly at the assembled villagers before turning away towards the nearest cooking fire. They perhaps thought that he was about to provide them with a demonstration, but far from it. He had given them all plenty to think about, and suddenly felt unaccountably hungry. Perhaps the prospect of bloody violence had honed his appetite. Grabbing a bowl, he spooned out a large helping of the ubiquitous beans, and proceeded to wolf them down.

  All around him there was a hive of activity, as the inhabitants of San Marcos came to terms with the very real prospect that they could soon be fighting for their lives. And yet it wasn’t long before they began to realize that waiting could be an ordeal in itself!

  Much later that afternoon, Set-tainte listened to his scout’s report with a mixture of outrage and astonishment. That their seriously wounded comrade had died, came as no surprise. But that his severed head was now displayed above the settlement was something else again. No one could be allowed to treat a Comanche warrior in such a fashion.

  As he raged and cursed at the cloudless sky above, one very definite thought clearly emanated from the seething maelstrom of his mind. If these pathetic farmers were trying to provoke him, then they had succeeded! They needed to learn fear and respect. The chief had intended to take his large war party in a rapid sweep around the walls, to emphasize their overwhelming strength, but not now. Now he would lead them straight through the main entrance, under the grisly remains and on to slaughter everyone they found.

  For some minutes he allowed word of the Mexicans’ behaviour to spread amongst his warriors, and then, as anger swelled in their ranks, he motioned them on towards San Marcos. Trailing a cloud of dust, the whole barbaric horde surged forwards. That they would triumph was undoubted, and such knowledge even lessened their habitual fear of enclosed spaces. Because when the inevitable massacre was over, it would be they who controlled that particular space!

  ‘Madre de Dios!’ His voice was strident, fear dripping from every syllable, as the lookout pointed off into the distance.

  Ignoring the pain from his partially healed wound, Bannock leapt to his feet and ran for the wall, closely followed by Luis. What he saw came as no surprise. Possibly as many as one hundred riders were approaching at speed. The sight was enough to chill the blood of even the most experienced Indian fighter. What he had been warning everyone about had finally come to pass. The agonizing wait was over, but what was likely to follow would be far worse.

  ‘Women and children out of sight!’ the American bellowed. ‘The rest of you to your positions. And remember: don’t get scared, get angry. This is your home!’

  As Luis rattled out the translation, all the while gesturing for Pepita to move indoors, Bannock drew his Colts. It wasn’t that they were needed just yet, but he knew that many eyes were on him. The simple villagers needed to know that he was with them.

  As the Comanches rapidly closed in, Bannock waited to see if they would spread out and reconnoitre. A feral grin spread over his face as he realized that they were all heading for the main entrance. The front runners were glaring up at the severed head. His ploy had worked.

  ‘Tell them to be ready near the gates, but to stay out of sight,’ he hissed. ‘And then find your own spot.’

  ‘But where, señor?’ Even though armed with both musket and machete, Luis was plainly nervous.

  Bannock winked encouragingly. ‘So stick with me. But keep that damned toad stabber out of my face.’

  Together they returned to the compound. The sound of a great many unshod hoofs grew closer and closer. It was time. Removing one of his precious Lucifers from a pocket, the American knelt down next to an ornate polished wooden box that one of the women had produced. It was a treasured family heirloom, but one that she had been prepared to sacrifice for the greater good. A diminutive hole had been drilled through the side, to allow a short trail of black powder to be laid. That propellant’s incendiary properties could be notably unpredictable, and the margin for error was desperately small.

  As the Lucifer flared into life, Bannock touched it to the powder. ‘Run like hell!’ he barked at Luis, and together the two men leapt behind a pile of rubble reclaimed from a disintegrating wall.

  After what had seemed a lifetime of waiting, everything suddenly happened at once. The irreconcilably hostile horsemen burst forth into the compound. Because their whole system of warfare was based on rapid movement, they continued to do just that. Without slowing, and with remarkable skill, the leaders flowed out to the sides, searching for victims. This allowed the following warriors to pack in behind them, unwittingly doing exactly as Bannock had anticipated.

  With divine timing, the powder charge exploded with a tremendous roar, sending a lethal mixture of wooden splinters and stone and metal fragments in all directions. The Comanches, lightly clad and caught completely unawares, had no defence against the scything objects. Their small buffalo-hide war shields might as well have not existed. And it was the later arrivals, closest to the blast, which suffered most in the carnage. Ponies and their riders endured every conceivable injury. Tender flesh was sliced open or skewered, and bones shattered. As blood flowed from their bronzed bodies, a great cloud of acrid smoke enveloped Bannock’s victims.

  The cries of distress attested to the success of his plan – and yet the fight had only just begun, because the Comanche leader was quite obviously still alive. Bannock came to that conclusion with a jarring shock, when he suddenly spotted an Indian holding Chet Butler’s prized volleygun. Only someone of superior status would have secured that weapon. Which meant it was also very likely that this same war party had participated in his killing, along with the self-styled ‘Children of God’, and therefore the American had even more reason to seek their destruction.

  Bellowing out over the mayhem, he
commanded, ‘Get those God-damn gates shut!’ To ensure that he was understood, Luis swiftly relayed the instructions in strident Spanish.

  Seemingly jolted out of a dazed stupor, the villagers assigned to the task appeared from cover, put their shoulders to the weathered timber and heaved. Before the startled marauders could react, the disused gates slid together across the gap, effectively barring their escape. This was the time to throw everything at the Comanches, whilst they were disorientated and hurting . . . and before they could begin to retaliate!

  ‘Now the rope!’ Bannock yelled. ‘Trip the ponies!’ He glanced at Luis. ‘What the hell is rope in Mex?’

  ‘Cuerda!’ that man replied.

  ‘Cuerda, cuerda!’ the American took up the cry, to be rapidly joined by his interpreter.

  Those villagers assigned to that task abruptly appeared, pulling taut on two great lengths of rope. To Bannock, it seemed as though no one could do anything on their own initiative. But then, to be fair, it was unlikely that anyone had been in a battle before.

  Although the two lines were dragged along the ground from different starting points, they didn’t actually manage to bring many animals down, but a number of riders were unseated and it all kept up the pressure on the beleaguered warriors. Then an arrow tore into the side of one of the men holding an end of rope. The sight of one of their friends writhing on the ground in bloody agony was enough to unnerve the remainder, and they broke and ran for cover.

  With only Comanches out in the open, it was time to utilize every weapon that the settlement possessed. ‘Pile it into them!’ Bannock hollered. ‘Slash the ponies. Fight for your lives!’ He had no idea whether the rapid translation was accurate, but Luis certainly appeared to be giving it his all!

  A warrior by the name of Alaki stared at their voluble opponents in disbelief. Then, urging his mount over to Set-tainte, he yelled, ‘It is him. The one who killed all our brothers in the pursuit!’

  The startled chief followed his subordinate’s glance. It was true that one of the men was no Mexican. ‘You are sure?’ he demanded.

  Then the gunfire started around them, and any reply was lost in the mayhem. An old, grizzled peon leapt out of a doorway, showing great agility for his years, and levelled a wicked-looking sawn-off shotgun at the milling horsemen. He squeezed both triggers in rapid succession, unleashing two deadly discharges of jagged metal. Almost simultaneously, from a nearby window, there came the sharp crack of a .50-calibre Hawken. Three more raiders toppled from their animals, bloodied and twitching their death throes. On the other side of the compound, a double-shotted musket crashed out. In such a mêlée, accuracy was irrelevant. All that counted was the blasting of hot lead into the enemy.

  Those battered warriors who had felt the dreadful effects of the explosion but had survived it, were galloping aimlessly around the compound, desperately searching for a way out. The unexpected gunfire only exacerbated their trepidation. Enclosed spaces made them nervous at any time, and now they wanted nothing more to do with San Marcos. Set-tainte realized that if he didn’t act fast, their fear would rapidly affect the others.

  Raising the distinctive volleygun above his head, the chief shouted out, ‘Are you all women or warriors? These Mexican curs have done their worst, and now they are nothing. They have no more power. Kill them all, and take everything!’

  His warriors heard the familiar voice, and the savage entreaties began to take effect. Instead of thinking only of escape, some of them began to search for enemies to kill. Bannock, too, could sense that this was the tipping point, when the ferocious confrontation could go either way. It was time for him to risk everything.

  Drawing in a deep breath, the American rose up from behind cover and strode brazenly into the open. As so often in dire circumstances, calmness settled over him like a cloak. Squaring his shoulders, he glanced around, displaying every appearance of complete scorn for the rampaging Comanches. In each hand he held a cocked revolver, the retractable triggers down and ready.

  Recognizing a direct challenge when they saw one, two warriors rode directly for him. One drew back a taut bowstring, whilst the other brandished a hand axe. Others swung around behind him, to cut off any retreat and aid in his destruction. Effectively surrounded by howling enemies, a lesser man would have succumbed to panic . . . and undoubtedly died.

  With great deliberation, Bannock squeezed his right forefinger. As the revolver bucked in his hand, the .36 calibre ball smashed into the heavily contorted features of the bowman. With great good fortune, his suddenly uncontrolled arrow skittered off to the side, and buried itself deep into the belly of a pony, unseating its rider.

  Even as Bannock raised the barrel to again cock his piece, he simultaneously fired the left-hand Colt. The ball tore into the left breast of the axe-wielding warrior. As the vicious weapon slid from abruptly nerveless fingers, his killer coolly pivoted on his heels to confront those behind him. Again he fired, this time striking a Comanche side on, sending him toppling to the ground.

  Like a ferret after its prey, a peon leapt from cover and repeatedly slashed at the wounded Indian with his machete. Encouraged by their ally’s quite remarkable lone stand, other Mexicans began to appear around the compound, clutching similar weapons.

  Apparently cool and composed, Bannock continued to unleash shot after shot, until he had only one charged chamber remaining in each of his five-chambered Colts. A wide gap had cleared around him, as the warriors now shied away from confronting such a lethal assassin. Seeing so many others shot to hell and dying, any remaining resolve had been shattered. Now, their only intention was flight.

  Then Bannock saw the Comanche who held Chet’s volleygun attempting to manoeuvre towards him. That ‘crowd-pleaser’ needed only to be vaguely pointed in his direction, but that was proving to be harder than expected. The heavy weapon demanded two hands, and its new owner’s pony was being unintentionally jostled by his own men, in their headlong rush for the nearest low wall.

  Levelling his right-hand Colt, Bannock took careful aim at the struggling chief. If he could just drop him, the fight might well be over for good. Carefully he squeezed the trigger, and then cursed volubly. At the very moment of discharge, a warrior had blundered in front of his target. The lead ball struck that luckless individual in the back of his head, spraying warm blood and brain matter over the startled leader.

  Sensing someone at his shoulder, Bannock turned to find Luis staring at him, his sallow features alive with excitement. ‘Get your people after them,’ he ordered. ‘Make those bastards wish they’d never set eyes on San Marcos!’

  The Mexican grinned wolfishly. He appeared to be enthused by a fire that his guest hadn’t seen before. Blood dripped from the blade of his machete, testifying to his newfound aggression.

  As more and more villagers pursued the now fleeing Comanches, their leader mopped blood from his eyes, and angrily accepted that, for the moment, there was nothing further that he could contribute. Swinging his animal around, he urged it over the nearest adobe barrier and out on to the open ground that suited his people so much better.

  Under normal circumstances, such a costly reverse would have sent him and his followers on their way, in search of easier prey. But there was nothing normal about San Marcos, because the former mission contained an individual who appeared to possess a mantel of invincibility, along with a vocation to slaughter every Comanche that he came across. And such a man could not be allowed to live . . . whatever the cost, because the prestige endowed upon his killer would be immense!

  Chapter Nine

  Darkness, such as it was, had fallen, but out there in the gloom many campfires were visible. The Comanches were making no effort to hide their presence. In fact, it seemed almost as though they were attempting to draw the Mexicans out, knowing that in open country they, the well-mounted Indians, were pretty much supreme.

  ‘Is that it? Have we beaten them? Will they leave us alone now?’ In the immediate aftermath of the desperate fight, t
he hopeful questions had come thick and fast through his two translators. Bannock had fervently hoped that they had done enough, but sadly that now appeared not to be the case. Sometimes there was just no accounting for how an Indian would react. Whims and notions strange to a white man meant that they could be very unpredictable.

  In an attempt to put a little space between him and the disappointed villagers, the American was now stationed on an undamaged rampart-like section of wall, which boasted a short stretch of walkway behind it. In spite of, or perhaps because of those damn fires, he was very conscious of the nervous glances from the lookout next to him. It was as though the peon was attempting to draw strength from his presence.

  Rearranging his grim features in the semblance of a smile, Bannock winked encouragingly and pointed off towards the enemy’s encampment. ‘Don’t look at me. Look at them,’ he muttered softly, knowing that he was unlikely to be fully understood.

  Sighing, he turned to peer down into the compound. All was quiet, and yet the whole settlement appeared to be out of doors. It was as though, after what they had been through, everyone felt the need for companionship. Because, unlike the strange, embittered Yankee in their midst, they were essentially a social people.

  The two dozen or so broken bodies of the fallen Comanches had been dragged into a pile, for disposal at a later time – though it was to be hoped not too much later, because in such a climate they would soon begin to turn. There were no prisoners, or indeed even any ailing survivors within the walls. Bannock had seen to that. He knew full well that a wounded Indian could be even more dangerous than normal, and that hard-learnt knowledge had resulted in a fearful amount of additional bloodletting.

  Luis regarded the fearsome gringo from under hooded eyelids. He preferred that his observations stayed hidden, because their lethal saviour remained a complete enigma to him. As his daughter stirred in a troubled sleep next to him, he tenderly stroked her hair, but his eyes never left Bannock. Since the one-sided battle, and the gory nightmare of ‘attending’ to the wounded that had followed, Pepita had clung to him like a limpet. In spite of his strict instructions to stay out of sight, he was painfully aware that she had witnessed far more than anyone her age ever should have.