Peacemaker, p.10
Peacemaker!, page 10
Where Zeb would calculate the odds and decide whether or not they were worth risking his life, Billy would rush in bull-headed. Ryker felt he was capable of gunning a tied-man and claiming speed on a hidden gun. That Billy could produce from his pocket.
He chose to stay quiet, letting the aches ease from his head as they rode south. Bowdry picked a different trail to the one Ryker had used coming north from Elisaria, and by the time they made camp he had no idea of the exact direction back to the town or back to the fort.
Bowdry was an old trail hand. He found them a cleft in a mesa that was approached only by the dry wash leading up to where water had once pumped from the ground.
He kept Ryker’s hands lashed together and dogged tight-knotted hobble strings about the gunslinger’s ankles. Then he posted Billy on guard and set to making a fire. Unashamed of being the best cook around, he held the pan over the flames of the blaze.
Zeb stared at Ryker.
‘They say you killed a lotta men.’ He reached back to produce a bottle from his saddlebags, taking a long swig before handing the whiskey to Ryker. ‘That right?’
‘I never bothered to count.’ Ryker took just enough of the liquor to. ease his numbed body. ‘It never seems important.’
‘I shot five men in straight fights,’ said Zeb. ‘Twenty paces at the most. I out-drew them.’
‘Great.’ Ryker sipped his coffee. ‘That makes you a real gunman. Shoot fast an’ die early. Me, I’d sooner make money than count scores. I reckon to enjoy my talent.’
‘You’d not say that if you had a gun,’ Zeb rasped. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’
Ryker grinned and emptied his mug. ‘Pass me a gun. I’ll show you.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Bowdry looked up from his cooking. ‘We’re taking the man back to be hung on the Big G. You want to lose the reward, Zeb?’
The black-clad gunman ground the whiskey bottle hard into the sand. ‘I want to know I’m the best, you goddam cowboy.’
Bowdry reached for his pistol, but before his fingers had even got close to the butt, both of Zeb’s Dragoons were out and pointed.
‘I ain’t arguin’ with taking him back,’ he said. ‘Just about our speed. I used to know a girl called Mary Jane who reckoned that the man who drew the fastest got the job done quickest. I’d like to see him pay out like it was in Mescal. Friend of mine—man called Moor—got killed there by the Federales on some no-account charge. I just want to check this hardline gunman so I know I can take him.’
‘Empty pistols,’ said Chuck. ‘On account of how I got the duty o’ bringing him back fer hanging. You want to play around, then empty that goddam cannon on yore right side, an’ I’ll give Ryker an empty Colt.’
‘All right.’
Zeb eased both Colt Dragoons from his holster. He passed one—still loaded—to Bowdry, then fired the other into the ground. Holstered the gun and stared at Ryker. Bowdry fetched the Colt Single Action from Zeb’s saddlebags and passed it to Ryker.
The gunslinger checked the load: empty. He holstered the pistol.
‘I’ll count three,’ said Bowdry. ‘Then you draw.’
Firelight flickered about their feet. Bowdry—Indian conscious—had built only a small fire. Ryker accepted the empty pistol, hefted the unusual balance, and dropped it into the holster. Zeb did the same.
Bowdry counted.
Zeb drew on three. So did Ryker.
Hammers clicked on empty cylinders.
‘Bang,’ said Ryker, ‘you’re dead.’
‘The hell!’ Zeb was angry. ‘I beat you.’
‘No.’ Ryker shook his head. ‘I’d have hit you a fraction before your bullet got near me. Those Dragoons are too heavy. A Colt’s Navy pulls faster than them. This new Colt is even better.’
Zeb spat and turned to the entrance of the mesa.
‘Billy! Get back in here!’
‘Christ!’ Chuck Bowdry came up from the fire with the Starr pointed at Zeb. ‘You wanna bring every goddam Comanche down on our necks?’
Zeb shook his head. ‘No. I just aim to add one more notch to my tally. I want to be the man who killed John Ryker.’
‘You’re fuckin’ crazy.’ Bowdry angled the Starr on Zeb’s chest. ‘You just settle back an’ do what you was paid for. Leave Ryker be.’
One of the many advantages about the new Colt’s Single Action Army model was that it could be loaded fast and quietly. The sound the brass-jacketed shells made as they slid into the loading bay was slight enough to get lost under the shouting.
Ryker loaded the pistol on all six chambers, using the cartridges hidden in his pockets. He dropped the gun into his holster as Billy came running back from the entrance of the cleft.
Zeb looked at the Starr and nodded. ‘You’re the boss.’
Then: ‘Billy! Kill him!’
‘Why?’
The question sounded idiotic.
Bowdry began to chuckle, so that Zeb turned to face his partner, his mouth split in a snarl.
‘If we kill him we’ll not get the bounty from Gantry,’ said Billy. ‘Besides, Chuck ain’t a bad guy. I’d sooner kill Ryker.’
The gunslinger watched a shadow move across the skyline. Then more across the mouth of the cleft.
Baldry was still holding the big Starr on Zeb, and Billy was pointing the Winchester around the draw, shifting his aim from Baldry to Ryker.
The first arrow hit him like he was in front of a runaway horse.
It went in through his back, aimed neatly between his shoulders so that the point jutted out in front of his chest. Blood dropped round the exit point. More erupted from the back and Billy’s mouth.
He fell down on his face. Screaming.
As he fell, three more shafts landed home. One followed the first hit, opening a wider hole in Billy’s lung. The second plunged through his hip, twisting his leg so that he fell down and threw the Winchester in a wide arc that landed the gun close enough to Ryker that the gunslinger could grab it and wriggle back into cover. The third landed between his right shoulder and his neck. It dug into the ground, pinning Billy’s head down so that he kicked and twisted as the holes in his body poured his life over the ground.
Chuck Bowdry lifted his own Starr revolver and Zeb’s Colt Dragoon, firing both handguns at the rim of the mesa. He hit at least three Indians, because three bodies fell from the rocks.
Then arrows thudded into his body.
He was lucky: the first one entered through his ribs and cut into his heart, killing him. The second struck a lung, and the third tore through his throat. The fourth and fifth punctured his belly. But by then he was dead anyway.
Anyway at all: the only people alive in the camp were Ryker and Zeb.
Zeb stared around, eyes opening wide.
He stared around, dropping the Dragoon on to the sand as a line of horsemen appeared at the mouth of the cleft.
Then he launched himself forwards, reaching for the Sharps resting across his saddle.
Three bows leant a twanging sound to the night, swiftly followed by the hum of the shafts and the heavier thudding of their landing. They hit the ground in front, between and behind, Zeb’s feet, so that he tripped on the wooden shafts and crashed on to his face.
He began to stand up.
Another arrow sprayed dirt between the spread fingers of his left hand. A fifth hit the ground under his chin, the painted feathers bristling against his cheek. Zeb froze.
From the front of the cleft a voice rang, calling first in the guttural tones of the Comanche, then in the softer Spanish that was the lingua franca of the southern plains.
‘Take them alive. Both of them.’
Moonlight shone from a metal breastplate.
Multiple rays deflected off a dented helmet.
Ryker stood up, recognizing the Comanche war chief known as Iron Shirt. He walked forwards with both arms lifted high in the air.
His mouth was raw for want of water and he could feel sweat running down his back.
He stood still as the mounted warriors came in, lances and bows pointed at his chest.
Chapter Eleven
IRON SHIRT CAME in close enough that the lance he carried touched Ryker’s shirt-front.
The gunslinger held his ground, staring at the Comanche war chief as the metal head of the lance pricked between the buttons of his brocade vest and dug gently into his ribs. Iron Shirt was old—just as Austin had described him—long hair falling in grey waves to his shoulders, the natural coloring imparted by age now emphasized by the moonlight. He wore a kettle helmet with a nose bar bisecting his face and heavy cheek flaps fastened under his chin so that little more than his dark eyes and his narrow mouth were visible. His torso and back were covered by the dented breastplate of some long-dead conquistador, the metal ending at his waist. Below that he wore a loin cloth and high moccasins. A Springfield carbine that Ryker recognized as the early Army model was sheathed alongside his pad saddle, and a leather belt around the flared waist of his armor held a tomahawk and a knife.
He tapped his heels against the flanks of his mustang, prompting the animal to step forwards. Ryker felt the point of the lance break skin, releasing a thin trickle of blood over his belly.
He braced his legs, gritting his teeth against the painful pricking of the lance.
The Winchester was on the ground a foot to his right. He calculated that he could throw himself backwards and plant at least two bullets from the Colt through the front of the Comanche’s helmet before reaching the long-gun. But there were ten Indians inside the cleft now, and more on the rimrock. He might take six or so out, but then he would be dead. And then the matched Colts would be lost forever and Ruby wouldn’t get her money. Or him the chance to help her spend it.
He kept his hands still and stared at Iron Shirt.
‘You are a brave man, Ryker.’ The Indian’s natural accent made his name sound like Ha’ker. ‘I think I will keep you alive a little bit longer.’
The pain in his chest went away as the chief backed his pony off and shouted orders. Six Indians sprang from their mounts, surrounding Ryker and Zeb. Three of them checked the prostrate killer for hidden weapons, coming up with a derringer from his vest and a switchblade knife from his right boot. They hauled him to his feet and pointed for him to mount his horse. Iron Shirt stared at Ryker.
‘You will come with us. Word has it that you understand the working of these new guns.’
A brave tossed the Winchester over to Iron Shirt and another removed Ryker’s pistol. The gunslinger was allowed to mount.
The six warriors formed a line behind the two white men, keeping close enough for their lances to sunder flesh with a single, short thrust. The others lined up on either side, while Iron Shirt led the little cavalcade out like an Army commander at the head of a victorious column.
Zeb rode with his head down and his eyes tight shut, letting his horse pick the path. Ryker stayed alert, watching as around fifteen more Comanches joined the column.
He saw that they were armed, for the most part, with bows and lances. A few—like Iron Shirt—carried guns: mostly ancient single-shot carbines or cap and ball pistols.
Something flew through the air beside him. Was caught by a laughing rider and tossed across his path.
It was a scalp.
It was followed by a second, droplets of blood flecking the night air so that the black stallion snorted nervously and the lances prodded close against his back as he calmed the horse. He realized that he had forgotten about Chuck Baldry and the kid called Billy. But hell! They weren’t his problem. Billy had been ready enough to kill him and Baldry had been taking orders to bring him back for a hanging, so why should he worry? His immediate concern was the simple fact of survival.
The Comanche camp was several miles to the north. It covered a bowl of grassy land scooped out of the top of a huge mesa. The path up was narrow, rimmed by high rock walls that were still deeply hung with shadow even though the early sun was flaking the upper levels with brilliant light. The entrance was barely wide enough to permit two horses, angling round in a dog’s leg that abruptly got steeper and wider. A few hundred yards farther on the trail narrowed down again to the width of a single horse, shifting sideways over level ground. Then a fan-shaped opening bled on to a wide, steep path that devolved upon a kind of plateau, and after that a gently curving trail eased down the slopes to the central basin.
Ryker could see why Iron Shirt had chosen this place as his main camp. And the choosing indicated his skill as a war leader. The entry was narrow enough that few people would spot it, and the trail in was easily guarded, the angles and slopes affording an easy defense.
Once past the maze of rock, the place was perfect. High enough to benefit from sun’s shine for most of the day, the basin was thick with grass. Pinons, wild oak and cherry grew along the upper levels. A spring filled a stone basin at the center, trickling away to the side of the mesa before disappearing back into the rock. The tents of the Comanche spread out in circles to one side of the watercourse, the tipis of the chiefs set at the center and those of the lesser families spreading out beyond. Off to the north there was a corral, and along the southern slopes fences had been built to contain the cattle stolen from local ranches.
Iron Shirt led the way in to the center.
He tossed his lance to a youth who might have been his son and dismounted as a woman came out with a bowl of food.
He dug his fingers into the carved wood platter and sucked the meat clear. Then he grunted and waved for his warriors to dismount.
Ryker climbed down. Iron Shirt bellowed an order, and the boy who had taken his lance took Ryker’s horse, leading the big black off to a picket line spread to one side of the chief’s tent. Nero—unused to the smell of Indians—fought the youth’s tugging, snapping yellow teeth at the restraining hand and trying to rear up. The boy gentled him down and tethered him alongside the mustangs.
‘Seven fine horses,’ grunted Iron Shirt, pointing at the line. ‘They are my war ponies. I have others, but they are the best. I keep them close so that I can fight the pinda-lick-oyi whenever I want.’
‘You can’t beat us,’ said Ryker. ‘You’d do better to make peace.’
‘And see the words the white men say are true forever blow away on the spring wind?’ Iron Shirt darted his hand at Ryker’s face, closing all but two of his fingers, so that the index and middle digits formed a vee. ‘The white men are like snakes: they move sideways and bite when they say they are peaceful. My people rode this land before any white men came. Now they come all the time. They fill it up with their towns and drive the buffalo away. They kill Indians because they want the land that was given to us. And when we tell them they cannot have it, they kill us. That is why I fight them.’
Ryker said nothing, and after a while Iron Shirt continued.
‘Now the white men have made the guns that fire fast. I have one of those, but the new ones are better. They fire more bullets much quicker than the old ones.’
He lifted Ryker’s Winchester and Colt, holding them like holy relics.
‘These are very good weapons, but it is hard for us to understand them. You must show us how.’
‘Why?’ Ryker asked. ‘Why should I?’
‘So that you stay alive.’ Iron Shirt laughed. ‘You and the other one will show us how they work. The one who lives will go free.’
Ryker was bundled into a tipi. It smelled of buffalo grease and old sweat. There was a fire of buffalo chips wafting smoke from the epicenter of the tent to the smoke-hole at the top; a buffalo hide rug to one side, raised on a structure of wood and rawhide to make a wide, comfortable-looking bed. The ground was bare, apart from a scattering of hairy rugs.
A woman with a face that looked like an old tree trunk came in with three bowls of food. As she went out, Ryker saw that two Comanche braves guarded the entrance to the tent.
He looked at the food and blew the fire up to fresh life, for although the sun was now shining directly into the basin, the air was cool.
He ate. Not enjoying the unusual tastes, but recognizing the need to sustain his body. Then he stretched out on the bed, his feet hanging from the rim, and went to sleep. It was the kind of nebulous rest that perches midway between full relaxation and alertness. He was neither truly asleep, nor fully awake. Images ran through his mind like water gurgling over stones on a stream’s bed: swirling and swift, churning up the muddy bottom and then spilling it clear. He dreamed of the set of matched Colts. Of Chuck Bowdry going down with arrows in his body. Of Wes Gantry dying. Of Ruby.
Ruby …
The reason he had come so far …
Ruby, back in Tucson …
Alive?
Or dead?
He groaned in his fitful sleep … Ruby …
Dark hair and pale body …
Ruby …
A slap woke him and his right hand shifted automatically to his side, seeking the pistol that was no longer there.
He opened his eyes and saw Iron Shirt peering down at him.
‘It is time.’
‘For what?’
‘For you to show how these new guns work. You and the other one.’
Ryker climbed off the bed. ‘All right.’ He had no other choice.
From the height of the sun he guessed that it was noonday. His watch showed twelve o’clock. He said, ‘Let me get dressed.’
Iron Shirt nodded and quit the tent.
Ryker made a fuss of fixing his vest and straightening his pants. At the same time he checked the two derringers hidden in right boot and belt. Both guns were secure, and the pockets of his jacket and vest were still filled with cartridges and caps. He shrugged into his coat and settled the black Stetson on his head. Then he went out into the sunlight.
Most of the Comanche camp was lined up beside the stream, the columns of Indians forming two lines. Zeb stood at one end and, as an afterthought, Ryker suddenly realized that he didn’t know the man’s last name. He decided it didn’t matter.
