Bannock’s return had been greeted by a sea of anxious, questioning faces, but he hadn’t known what to say to them. ‘We’re all going to burn to death,’ translated into Spanish, didn’t seem adequate somehow, and so instead he had said nothing.
Now, as he tried to staunch the blood flowing from his cheek, he looked up and saw smoke appearing above him. The roof level was a lot higher than in the other buildings, but that wouldn’t save them once the fire really took hold. Sensing movement beside him, he turned to find Silas Braxton staring at him, all the while massaging his obviously painful right hand.
‘What you did out there hasn’t changed anything between us, you know,’ that man rasped.
‘I wouldn’t have it any other way,’ Bannock retorted, although in truth he didn’t really care. All he could think about was the horrible fate that awaited them all, but more especially Pepita in her lovely red dress.
‘God damn it to hell!’ he suddenly exclaimed to no one in particular. ‘There must be something we can do.’ Glancing around, he spotted Luis. ‘Have you any water in here?’
That man shrugged. ‘A little, señor.’
‘Try to wet the ceiling. It might delay the fire.’
Bannock wouldn’t have blamed the Mexican if he’d replied, ‘Delay the fire for what?’ But he didn’t. What he did do was instruct his people to get the earthenware pots of water, and start splashing it above them. It was a pitiful enough defence, but at least it would keep them occupied.
‘Not all of it, mind,’ the American added. He well knew that there would be another use for it once the flames really took hold.
‘What say we make a break for it? Just you and me,’ Braxton enquired softly. ‘Leave these damn peasants to fry in their own grease. If we break out together, and use that scattergun, we might just make it. Them Comanches don’t much like hot lead. Steal a couple of ponies, and then once away from this shit hole, we can finally settle our differences.’ His uninjured hand brushed the scar on his cheek. ‘Way I see it, even after all this, I still owe you some grief.’
Bannock stared at him scornfully. ‘I reckon not. Unlike you, when I side with someone, I stick with them!’
A sneer spread across the other man’s harsh features. ‘So that’s how it is. Well, it don’t take much understanding. I seen how you’ve been eyeing that little bitch over there.’
Bannock’s habitual self-control abruptly snapped. Without warning, he lashed out with a vicious backhand slap across Braxton’s face, and then followed it up with a tremendous blow to his jaw. That man reeled backwards, falling on to a long table that then collapsed under his weight.
‘Stay down, you cockchafer,’ Bannock snarled. ‘ ’Cause if you get up, so help me God, I’ll kill you stone dead!’ As it turned out, he was wasting his breath. Braxton was out cold, and likely to stay that way for some time. Up above, the flames were spreading, making a mockery of the villagers’ frantic efforts. ‘Looks like you’ll just have to take your chances,’ he muttered and turned to walk away. But then some little niggle in the recesses of his mind brought him up short. Regardless of who it was, he just couldn’t let someone burn to death. Somehow that would seem worse still than any amount of back-shooting.
Sighing, Bannock decided to at least afford Braxton a fighting chance, even though knowing that he couldn’t have expected the same courtesy from him. Seizing the solid tabletop, he placed it over the prone figure, and then again turned away. The man’s chances were now probably little worse than all the others trapped in the building.
The heaviest beams, the vigas, were ablaze, as were the other supports. What Bannock had feared most was now happening: there was nowhere left to run to, and their holdout position was about to come down on their heads.
‘Forget that,’ he yelled at Luis. ‘Nothing will stop it. Tell everyone to dip some clothing in water and hold it over their faces. Then get them to lie on the floor around the base of the walls. It’s all we can do.’
Luis shook his head in despair, but translated the instructions anyway. Then, bringing Pepita with him, he joined the solitary American over by the nearest wall. All around them the villagers did the same. The heat was becoming unbearable. Hot ashes were dropping down to the dirt floor, and it was only a matter of time before the whole roof followed. Considering the dire situation, there was very little panic. It was as though the bloody events of the last day or so had somehow anaesthetized them against further trauma.
As the three of them huddled down together, the Mexican peered at him questioningly. He had Pepita’s trembling body wrapped tightly in his arms. She held a damp cloth over her face. The noise and heat made conversation difficult, but there was something he just had to ask. ‘Tell me honestly, señor. Would all this destruction have happened if you hadn’t come among us?’
Bannock’s eyes widened slightly. That was a hell of a question to have to answer, but he owed it to the man to try. ‘No,’ he emphatically replied. ‘No, it wouldn’t. Because your resistance would have been far less. But all that means is that they would have killed any men that they chose, and then carried off the women and children too for their own ends. At least this way you’ve had a fighting chance . . . and it could have worked out. Comanches ain’t normally this persistent.’
At that moment, before Luis had any chance to respond, the structure above began to give way. With a great crash, a large section of burning timber fell into the centre of the one-room building. Daylight flooded in from above, and along with it came much of the remaining roof. Flaming brushwood showered down, landing on and igniting the former church’s rudimentary furniture. The intense heat suddenly became unendurable. For the desperate villagers, their unprotected flesh blistering agonizingly, whatever awaited them outside couldn’t possibly be worse. And so, en masse, they despairingly staggered to their feet and made for the entrance.
Outside, the gleeful Comanches sat their ponies in a semi-circle and waited. Their barbed arrows were ready, and this time Set-tainte felt confident that there would be no resistance worthy of the name. The slaughter would be glorious, and whoever they chose to spare would be enslaved. Just as had always been the case!
Chapter Twelve
‘Disparar!’
The ragged volley that crashed out was so totally unexpected that for a long, crucial moment the only Comanches to react were the dead and dying. Even when they did turn to view their unknown assailants, it was not immediately apparent just who they were up against. A great cloud of powder smoke was only gradually clearing from the area near the main entrance. Behind it, they were able to glimpse snatches of blue and white material.
This brief period of uncharacteristic inactivity gave Capitan Ugalde’s fifty regulars the crucial time they needed to recharge their muzzle-loaders. It was a very rare occurrence for Mexican infantry to catch horse Indians in an enclosed space, and he fully intended to make the most of it. His tired, sweating men had made a forced march to reach San Marcos, but all that was forgotten as they presented their weapons to unleash another volley.
With a further deafening crash, fifty muskets discharged into the relatively small area before the wrecked church. Set-tainte watched with horror as, mere feet away, a massive .69-calibre lead ball totally destroyed Alaki’s already battered features. Miraculously the war chief remained untouched, but all around him far too many of his warriors had been blasted from their ponies. He still couldn’t quite grasp just what was happening, and had no idea how to tackle the apparently overwhelming force arrayed against his people. Then he saw a line of wicked-looking bayonets advance through the ‘fog of war’, and he abruptly realized that all was lost.
Standing a little off to the side, Ugalde had noticed that a number of survivors were beginning to emerge from the church. He could no longer risk another volley, and so had given the order to advance. As his men tramped slowly, purposefully forwards, the officer could sense that the Comanches were broken. Taken by surprise, the remaining warriors couldn’t sta
nd against even moderately disciplined soldiers.
The muffled roar of gunfire came as just one more shock to those in the ruined church, but it could make no difference to their decision to flee. To remain was to die, pure and simple.
Bannock, wearing thicker clothing than the others, was using his back to shield Luis and Pepita, as they made their way around the wall to the exit. The sickly smell of burning flesh reached his nostrils, as some of those at the rear succumbed to the flames, but there could be no help for them. He had no idea who could be firing, but was very conscious of the fact that he hadn’t had a chance to reload any of his weapons. All he could do was brandish them threateningly, and hope that the Comanches would seek easier victims.
As the three of them stumbled out into the open, the American peered around guardedly. He fully expected to be attacked immediately, but amazingly it was the Comanches who were on the defensive. . . those few that remained. Then he looked to his left and saw the extended bayonets of their saviours approaching. ‘Hot damn,’ he murmured wondrously. This was one turn of events that he could never have envisaged. And yet it wasn’t quite over.
As he saw the hated white man emerge into the sunlight, Set-tainte let out a guttural snarl. If he achieved nothing else that day, he would at least kill one particular individual. Even after thumbing back the hammer on his prized volleygun, it still required both hands to hold and aim the massive weapon, and so he controlled his animal by leg pressure alone. That presented no problem, because like all his kind, he was an expert rider. Fully intending to see the expression on his victim’s face as he was blown to pieces, the obsessed war chief moved into point-blank range.
As Luis and Pepita staggered away from his protective mantel, Bannock sensed the sudden movement directly before him. Looking up, he found himself staring into the gaping muzzles of Chet’s treasured Nock, and his heart sank.
Set-tainte bared his teeth in a feral grin, and squeezed the trigger. The powder in the pan flashed satisfactorily, and then there was an ear-splitting roar as the fearsome, but incorrectly loaded weapon quite literally blew up in his face. Shards of metal turned his features into a bloody pulp, but others also struck both his torso and the animal beneath him. Rearing up in pain, it unceremoniously deposited its dead rider on to the hard ground like so much rubbish, before racing off across the compound.
Bannock gazed down at the mutilated Comanche who had tried so hard to kill him, and observed ‘Huh! Looks like Chet Butler had the final say after all!’
No one else heard him, because the remaining villagers were all staring in amazement as the soldados advanced across the front of the church, their bayonets driving the last Indians before them. The warriors made no attempt to resist with their bows. Their defeat had turned into a rout, and all they could think of was to escape over the nearest low wall. Without a backward glance, they raced off to the north-east, and the eventual safety of Comancheria. Unusually for a war party, they were lacking scalps, livestock, captives . . . and their own leader!
Capitan Ugalde carefully scrutinized the surrounding settlement, occasionally shaking his head in disbelief. He had never seen the like before. Admittedly, burnt-out villages were not unusual in northern Mexico, after the one-sided raids by horse Indians, but this was very different. San Marcos resembled a battlefield. Resistance had been extreme, and evidence of that was the severed head of a Comanche warrior, still displayed over the main entrance. Not to mention the array of blood-drenched cadavers that had been present before his men had even opened fire.
The capitan was not a harsh man by any means. In fact, he was known for both his humanity and sense of justice. It was the former that had compelled him into confronting Coronel Vallejo, and persuading that self-centred officer into allowing a detachment of fifty men to return to San Marcos.
Paradoxically, it was exactly because of the latter quality that he had to override his natural sympathy for the distraught villagers, and put military matters first.
Ugalde had many questions that required answers. Sargento Montoya’s murder remained unsolved, and he believed that the solution might well be found in the settlement. He was also greatly puzzled by the presence of a lone Americano. This man had not been there the last time they had been in the settlement. Or at least he hadn’t been seen then. Could it be that it was he who had instigated such an unusually stubborn defence . . . amongst other things?
‘Teniente!’ he called out. Moments later, Felipe stood before him. The young man appeared to be somewhat queasy at the sight of so much blood and gore, but he would learn to cope. He would have to. He was a professional soldier!
Ugalde issued a series of orders. ‘Post lookouts on the walls where possible. Round up any Indian ponies within the compound and use them to drag the bodies outside.’
‘To bury them, mi capitan?’
Ugalde stared at him incredulously, before shaking his head. ‘Soldados of Mexico do not dig holes for savages. Pile them high and burn them all.’
The colour drained from Felipe’s youthful features, and he swallowed uncomfortably. ‘Sí, mi capitan.’ About to turn away, a thought suddenly came to him. ‘The burning buildings. What should we do about them?’
‘Nothing. They are too far gone. Just let the fires burn out. Then these people will have to choose whether to leave or rebuild. Either way, we won’t be here then. We have given them their lives, and that is all we can do.’
Thoroughly chastened, the teniente saluted and turned away. This was one campaign he would not forget in a hurry.
Silas Braxton felt as though his entire body was on fire. The agony engulfing him was intense, but at least it meant that he was still alive. But how could that be, when it seemed as though the whole roof had collapsed on him? Tentatively, he shifted his shoulders, and discovered that some form of table or bench lay across them. This must have protected him from the worst of the flames. With other things to contend with, he gave no thought as to how it might have got there.
Groaning with the effort, Braxton shifted his arms under his chest to gain some leverage. Burning brushwood tumbled from his temporary shield, and fell on either side of him. Christ, but he’d been lucky! With an abrupt heave, he scrambled on to all fours, and then tilted sideways. Whatever was on his back fell to the ground, and it felt as though the weight of the world had been lifted from him. Yet the intense heat remained. He had painful blisters on his face and hands. It was past time to move, and yet his innate caution remained. In spite of his dire circumstances, he dimly recalled registering an outbreak of heavy gunfire, followed by some kind of explosion. Even though that had all now passed, he sensed that some important change had take place beyond his four walls.
After cautiously getting to his feet, Braxton moved rapidly over to the exit, but did not go outside. The stench in his nostrils told him that not everybody had survived the blaze, but all those still living appeared to have fled, so he had the wrecked premises to himself. Since the flames were subsiding, he decided to stay put and wait on events. There seemed to be a deal of activity in the compound, so it made sense to play dead and rely on his ‘listeners’ for a time. If he had done that during his recent debacle in Santa Fe, he wouldn’t have been on the run in the first place, and hence almost burnt to death in Sonora!
As the officer’s gaze again returned to him, Bannock could feel the familiar itch down his back that was usually an infallible warning of trouble. All around him, the villagers either sat or squatted, devoid of all energy. They appeared barely able to believe that it was all over, and seemed to have neither the desire nor ability to celebrate the fact. Perhaps they were just overwhelmed by the enormity of the reconstruction task that lay ahead of them. One thing was for sure; none of them were the subject of the capitan’s intense scrutiny!
‘So we survived, señor. Most of us, anyway.’ Luis remarked bitterly, as he peered up at the Americano. The peon’s expression was hard to read. A strange mixture of anxiety, disbelief and exhaustion. Curled
up in his lap, little Pepita slept soundly. That was surely the best thing for her. She had experienced things that would undoubtedly stay with her for the rest of her life. ‘But will those devils return, once you and the soldados have left? Will there be any point in rebuilding?’
Bannock could at least answer that with certainty. ‘You won’t see them or any other Comanches again. I know a little of how they think. They respect strength in an enemy. Word of their defeat here will spread. San Marcos will become known as a place of bad medicine for them, to be avoided at all costs. So at least something good has come out of all this bloodshed.’
Luis’s eyes widened with surprise and genuine pleasure. ‘Really? So all this wasn’t for nothing?’
A peculiar look came over Bannock. ‘What I’ve found in the past is that when the shooting stops, and the dead are buried, none of it means anything. So you build this place up again, and damn well prove me wrong! You hear?’
For the first time in days, a bright smile lit up the Mexican’s sallow features. ‘You’re a strange one, patron. But yes, we will rebuild. San Marcos will be a home for us all to be proud of again. You’ll see.’
With his peripheral vision, Bannock could make out a figure in blue, with a smattering of gold and scarlet, approaching their position. ‘I’ve a feeling I might not be around for that,’ he muttered darkly.
Capitan Ugalde arrived in front of them, flanked by two burly privados. For all his lack of arrogance, he never doubted that he was the master there. He required answers, and he would have them, because of all those remaining in San Marcos who might have murdered Montoya, this lean, hard-faced Anglo appeared the most likely.
‘Your name, señor?’ he asked in strongly accented, but nevertheless perfect English.
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