As the little one again settled, Luis tried to reconcile what he saw. In truth he was somewhat in awe of the frontiersman. The American’s personal offensive against the terrible horse warriors had been truly magnificent. In fact, that would make a good name for him: ‘The Magnificent One’. It was also apparent that under his gruff exterior he had a good heart. And yet at the same time, he was quite obviously a brutal, ruthless killer who could have no place in any civilized society.
Luis grunted uncomfortably. He was very aware that he, too, had blood on his hands. And although his actions had been justified, they did not sit well with him, because he also recalled the sheer animal bloodlust that had surfaced within him, as he hacked away with his machete. There was also the fact that the Americano was only with them because they had asked him to help.
A pitiful wail briefly disturbed the unusual quiet in the settlement. The villager struck by an arrow, whilst attempting to trip the Comanche ponies, was suffering the tortures of the damned. It was unlikely that he would see another sunrise. Luis sighed deeply. All this killing, and for what? Their enemies were still out there, planning God knows what, and his people no longer had access to fresh water.
The fact that that situation was their own fault entirely, never occurred to the Mexican – but he was about to discover the raiders’ next move.
‘Tomas!’ Bannock bellowed out in the night. ‘Throw me that long gun, pronto.’
The pockmarked peon jerked out of a shallow sleep, his confusion plain to see. The prized Hawken rifle was cradled in his arms, for all the world as though it was his lover. It was certainly a fact that he had come to regard it as his own. Then he heard the thunder of hoofs from beyond the walls, and a glimmer of understanding came to him. The Yankee required his attendance. But then that man yelled his name again and pointed at the weapon with every sign of impatience, and it abruptly dawned on him that it was the rifle alone that was expected. Very grudgingly, Tomas got to his feet and shambled over. Somehow, he now realized, wishful thinking had encouraged him to make an error of judgement, but that didn’t make it any easier to take. He had never possessed anything so fine in his life.
‘God-damned greaser!’ Bannock muttered, barely managing to conceal his intolerance of the Mexican’s tardy response. Reaching out, he grabbed the Hawken as it was reluctantly passed up to him, and then checked the seating of the percussion cap.
Out in the gloom, the landscape had suddenly come alive with fast-moving riders apparently carrying burning torches. The lookout next to him stared in horror, as the flickering pools of light rapidly grew closer. It didn’t occur to him that the Americano might understand exactly what was to come.
‘Luis, clear anyone out of those buildings. Now!’
‘Even the wounded, señor?’
‘Especially the wounded!’ So saying, Bannock levelled his rifle and drew a bead on one of the fast-approaching Comanches. The fact that the warrior was highlighted by the torch of burning brushwood that he carried, only made the sharpshooter’s task easier. As his long gun crashed out, the muzzle flash momentarily illuminated the wall, and the target toppled backwards off his mount. Swiftly he began to reload. It would have been quicker to utilize his Colts, but he didn’t feel inclined to waste precious powder against fast-moving targets that were unlikely to come in really close. There was another weapon that could maybe do some damage though.
‘Get that shotgun up here,’ he bawled. Yet even as he spoke, he knew that they had no chance of preventing the majority of the fire arrows and such getting through. As the old-timer with the sawn-off ascended the stairs, various burning projectiles began to rain over the walls. Many fizzled out on adobe bricks, but enough struck timber to get the job done.
As though deliberately taunting their enemies, the Comanches were only targeting the buildings facing the river. It appeared as if they were seeking to entice the foolhardy into making a dash for fresh water with which to fight the fires. As it happened, no one seemed to harbour any such death wish, but the natural instinct to protect their property was leading the Mexicans to make a big mistake. Carrying pots and urns of vital drinking water, many of them rushed towards the spreading flames.
‘Let them burn!’ Bannock yelled out. From beside him came the comforting roar of the ‘two-shoot’ gun, as first one barrel and then the second was discharged at the swarming horsemen.
Luis was horrified. ‘But señor, these are our homes!’ he protested from the compound.
The American was unrepentant. ‘If you use it on the buildings, what will you drink tomorrow, donkey piss? Remember, those bastards’ll likely still be out there!’
As the terrible reality of the situation sank in, the peon stared up at him numbly. Then, after shaking his head, he began to call out to his neighbours. The role of translator was definitely beginning to grate on him. Initially he was greeted with disbelief, as their glances switched between the man they knew so well and the grim-faced stranger up on the wall. Partially illuminated by flickering firelight, Bannock seemed, at that moment, to resemble a vision from hell itself. Only very reluctantly did they put down the various containers and instead concentrate on recovering everything they could from the threatened buildings.
All along one side of the mission compound, on either side of Bannock and his two companions, flames had taken hold. The Comanches had achieved their goal, and had no intention of pressing the attack. With euphoric whoops, they raced back to the safety of their camp. Bannock hadn’t quite finished with them, however. He had no intention of allowing them to believe that they could move across the surrounding country with impunity.
Resting his Hawken on the wall before him, he peered down the long barrel and quickly selected a victim. Because of the Indians’ habit of greasing their bodies with buffalo fat, myriad bronzed shoulders glistened in the moonlight. A cold smile spread across his features as he settled on one of the front runners. He’d show these cocky sons of bitches! Easing back the first trigger, Bannock held his breath and then gently squeezed the second. Even as his shoulder absorbed the recoil, he knew that he’d got it right. As a warrior slipped sideways off his mount, his executioner just couldn’t resist a chuckle.
Tomas stared up at the Americano with a mixture of awe and resentment. Was his presence among them a Godsend or a curse? The man was obviously a born assassin, who had undoubtedly saved them earlier that day. But was the violence only continuing because he had aroused the Comanches’ wrath? And would they have even attacked in the first place, if he hadn’t insisted on displaying the severed head? These difficult issues troubled him, but the time wasn’t right to voice them. The brushwood over the supports had caught fire, and now nothing could prevent the roofs from collapsing.
Up on the wall, the heat had grown intense, and so Bannock ushered his two companions down the steps and then followed on behind. It mattered not that the lookout had been withdrawn, because he was confident that they would not hear from the Comanches again that night. Even they had to sleep sometime!
Daylight revealed a sad state of affairs in the isolated settlement of San Marcos. The various fires had burnt themselves out, and now only wisps of dark smoke drifted up from the uninhabitable buildings. The fact that they had survived to see another day wasn’t sufficient to check the despondency that was spreading over the peons and their families. And that negative emotion showed itself in a suggestion made to Luis that was swiftly relayed to his guest.
‘Some of the men are talking of maybe surrendering to avoid any more destruction to their property.’
Bannock spat expressively into the dust. Like everyone else, he hadn’t slept much that night, but such suggestions could not be allowed to stand.
‘Then they must have shit for brains,’ he snarled. ‘This isn’t a war between gentlemen. There ain’t no surrendering to those devils.’
‘But could we not make a truce?’
‘You mean parley with them?’
Luis nodded eagerly. His tired
features were coated with dust and ash.
‘And what of your children?’ Bannock demanded. ‘Do you all really care so little for them?’
The peon was baffled. ‘You talk in riddles, señor.’
The American guffawed loudly, but little warmth reached his eyes. ‘I’ll allow that they might just be thinking that taking this place ain’t worth the return anymore. But, if you try to make terms with them, they’ll demand tribute, for sure.’
‘They already have our cattle!’
‘It ain’t livestock they’re short of. It’s children. Smallpox has killed more Comanches than any number of Texas Rangers. Their little ones don’t have any immunity to it, but other folks’s children do. Savvy?’
Luis’s eyes registered genuine horror, as he glanced over to where his daughter was sleeping. ‘I could never let them take her,’ he announced, with every sign of renewed resolve.
‘Others have felt that way,’ Bannock muttered grimly, as he suddenly recalled the little girl and her red bonnet. ‘And the only way to avoid it is to keep fighting, because sooner or later I reckon those horse Indians are gonna tire of all this.’
He had spoken with every display of conviction, but deep down the American wasn’t so sure. There was something different about this band. It was as though their leader had got it into his head to finish the job, regardless of cost. But surely the notoriously independent Comanches wouldn’t just blindly follow on.
Set-tainte was indeed having problems of his own. His warriors weren’t accustomed to enduring heavy casualties. It didn’t sit well with many of them. And it appeared that Alaki had been chosen for the unenviable job of mounting a challenge.
‘We have many dead, with nothing more to show for it than a herd of scrawny cattle,’ he declared, his hawk-like features set and determined. He did not relish his task. Set-tainte was a fearsome war chief of great repute, but Alaki knew that he had the backing of many in the band. ‘I say we should leave these pathetic creatures to their worthless existence. There will be another day, when they do not have that Tejano with them.’
Set-tainte’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘And what about our dead? Do we not avenge them?’
‘How?’ spat back the other. ‘They are behind walls, armed with guns. That damned ranger, or whatever he is, never misses. You might have become obsessed with him, but we have had enough!’
The chief’s eyes seemed to glisten in the harsh sunlight. ‘Who is we?’
Suddenly horribly aware of the rising tension, Alaki licked his lips nervously. He glanced around at his fellow warriors for support. Some were clustered around him, keen to see the outcome of the confrontation. Others had distanced themselves from it by tending to their ponies, or lounging by the campfires. The contender gestured at those nearest to him. ‘I speak for them.’
Set-tainte’s thin lips twisted slightly. ‘Yet I hear only your words.’
Unexpectedly he abruptly crooked his left forefinger, summoning the other man closer. ‘And so my reply should be for your ears only.’
Almost hypnotized by the penetrating gaze, Alaki involuntarily moved closer, leaning forward as he did so. Like a striking snake, Set-tainte’s left hand curled around the back of his unsuspecting opponent’s head, seized hold of a clump of jet black hair and pulled hard. At the same time, the chief’s right knee snapped up, catching his victim’s face full on with tremendous force. Every warrior in camp heard the bone break in Alaki’s nose. Excruciating pain exploded around his eyes, and for a few crucial seconds he was completely helpless.
Maintaining a vice-like grip on his hair, Set-tainte brutally heaved him up and around, so that the unfortunate warrior ended up facing his distressingly unsupportive comrades. With blood and mucus streaming from his wrecked nose, Alaki never saw the knife that appeared at his throat, but he sure as hell felt it. As the razor-sharp blade dug in, drawing yet more blood, the damage to his face suddenly paled into insignificance.
‘Who else thinks as he does?’ Set-tainte demanded.
His warriors thrived on hunting and warfare. They were hardened to killing, but they were also used to being led . . . by the man before them. They had never questioned his leadership before, and they were beginning to doubt the wisdom of attempting it now. Nevertheless, they did have genuine grievances.
‘Too many of our brothers won’t see their families again,’ one of them protested.
Set-tainte nodded understandingly, but his grip never slackened. ‘It is true. Many have lost their lives that shouldn’t have, but we could not have foreseen that. What we can do is avenge them.’ His hooded eyes roamed over them. ‘Who amongst you could just ride away, knowing that that white man, the killer of our people, is still drawing breath?’
The assembled warriors glanced at each other uncomfortably. There were undoubtedly many who wished to do just that, but their leader had laid down a direct challenge, and any man who shied away from it risked belittling himself before his peers.
Set-tainte fully understood the effect of his words, and now it was time to reveal his intentions. ‘If I told you that I had a plan to take that accursed place, would you still follow me?’
The assembled warriors returned their full attention to him. Or rather what they could see of him behind the bloodied and helpless figure of their comrade. Gradually, and in some cases very reluctantly, they all nodded their assent.
‘So how do we go about it?’ one of them demanded.
A hint of a smile creased Set-tainte’s harsh features. ‘Simple. We will torment the Mexicans with more fire, and then give them their cattle back.’ And with that, he removed the bloodstained blade from Alaki’s throat, allowing him to slump to earth, hurting but mercifully still alive.
Chapter Ten
The defendants of San Marcos had not expected to hear gunfire from beyond their walls. The Comanches possessed few firearms, and certainly nothing that could penetrate adobe. And yet, later on that morning, someone was firing a repeater. Knowing that another attack was almost certain, the American had been back on the undamaged section of wall since his impassioned conversation with Luis. What he now saw caused his heart to skip a beat.
A lone rider, apparently white, was spurring his horse towards the beleaguered settlement. Bannock’s first thought was that it was a cunning ruse, and that a Comanche had got dressed up in stolen clothes. But no, it was indeed a white man. And he sure had stirred up a hornet’s nest.
‘Rider coming in, and he ain’t an Indian,’ he bellowed down to a startled Luis. ‘Get one of those gates shifted.’ He noticed the old-timer with the sawn-off staring up at him expectantly and grinned, before gesturing for him to ascend the stairs. At least someone was up for a fight!
Barely had the gate been heaved aside, than the lone fugitive burst into the compound. Bannock levelled his rifle at the pursuers, but they rapidly veered off. Knowing his deadly skill with a long gun, they weaved skilfully from side to side to disrupt his aim. He shrugged philosophically, and held fire, unwilling to waste precious powder. There’d be another time.
The new arrival reined in and then swung his panting animal around in a full circle, so as to allow an inspection of his unfamiliar surroundings. Incongruously for such harsh terrain, he sported a dark frockcoat, which had once been expensive, but was now worn and travel stained. Likewise, his riding boots hinted at someone who had been a man of means, but was now down on his luck. Unless, of course, the whole attire had merely been stolen.
As he took in the sea of anxious faces, men, women and children too, his dust-coated features contorted into a strange leer. The action was emphasized by a livid scar on his left cheek, which had effectively ended his chances of ever being considered handsome. To the more perceptive there, it was noticeable that the young women claimed most of his attention. But such scrutiny was short-lived, because then something very strange occurred.
Almost simultaneously, Bannock descended the stairs as the stranger dismounted, so that they suddenly came face
to face with roughly ten yards separating them. As their eyes met, both men uttered the same word. ‘You!’
Each of them went for their nearest firearm, before seeming to recollect that they were not alone by any means. All around them, the villagers looked on in stunned amazement. As though frozen in time, their stares were locked together with malevolent intensity, but neither of them actually levelled a weapon. Somehow, the knowledge of the external threat still managed to penetrate their mutual loathing.
It was Bannock who finally broke the deadlock. ‘I thought you was dead, you back-shooting cockchafer!’
‘So did I . . . until I realized I was just in Texas,’ retorted the other harshly, his expression completely devoid of humour. ‘And besides, that charge was never proven.’
Another period of strained silence followed, as though each man was willing the other to make the first move.
‘You look like you’re fixing to pop a cap on me,’ the newcomer finally continued.
‘I’ll allow I’m considering it,’ Bannock retorted.
‘Whatever happened to that big bastard, Butler?’
‘He didn’t make it.’
‘Shame. I’d hoped it would be me that paroled him to Jesus.’
‘You’re all heart, Braxton.’
‘Yeah, I know. It’s a weakness of mine.’
Their tense standoff showed no sign of ending, but suddenly there was a cry from the wall, as outside forces again took a hand. ‘Señor, señor. Los Comanches, they move!’
The scarred visitor shrugged. ‘Looks like this’ll have to wait.’
Open Range Fury Page 9
