The floating outfit 58, p.13
The Floating Outfit 58, page 13
Gren glanced at the scratched, bloody face of the Ute girl as she lay without a movement. He’d seen one result of Comanche Blake’s fighting prowess and recognized her kind of work. A second thought hit him, a thought which put action into his limbs.
‘Then she saw us,’ he growled. ‘We’ve got to make sure she don’t talk.’
That was for certain. Nothing and nobody was hated more and dealt with quicker than a white man who armed bad Indians.
‘I’ll get the Utes after her,’ No-Nose suggested, looking for a half-breed cousin of his who was with the Utes, having elected to live on the Indian side of the family tree.
‘Nope. We don’t want them traipsing the country,’ Gren replied. ‘Make sure they know to hit at the Akins place tonight, not the S-B. Then get our horses and we’ll take out after her.’
Gren and the other two rode their horses in a direct line for Comanche Blake’s house, knowing that was the most likely place to find the girl, or some sign of her. From the look of the Ute girl and the length of the fight Comanche would not be in any shape to make good time.
It was No-Nose who saw the girl first. He bent forward and reached for the Sharps rifle in his saddle boot. Then the other two saw the girl as she stood knee deep in the water of the boundary stream, still a good distance away. Even as No-Nose began to draw the rifle he saw he was too late. The girl had turned, seen them and was now swinging back afork her roan horse and heading it across the water.
‘Get after her!’ Gren yelled. ‘You’ll not hit her at this range.’
Comanche Blake rode with death at her heels, urging every bit of speed out of her little roan.
The range was flashing by. The roan ran well, ran with the heart and spirit only a good horse can show. Comanche knew her little roan would run until it dropped. She also knew the dropping was not long away. She herself was in little better shape, that brief pause by the stream being the only thing which revived her and allowed her to stick in the saddle.
Behind her the men were closing the gap, for their horses were fresher. At any minute she expected to feel shots slapping the air by her but did not try to turn and fire although she drew the carbine once more. The ranch was ahead now.
That was when Comanche’s luck ran out. The roan staggered and started to buckle forward. She felt it going and kicked her feet free. She lit down rolling, came to her knees and saw Gren was near, had brought his horse to a halt and was lining the Smith and Wesson. The gun roared once. Through the smoke Gren saw Comanche rock backwards under the impact of the .44 bullet. Then Sharpe fired and the girl spun around to go down.
‘Got her!’ Gren roared.
The carbine was still in Comanche’s hand as pain welled through her but she forced herself over and fired. Gren’s shot, fast taken, had been lucky to hit. His luck held. The girl’s bullet ripped up, missing his face by scant inches and sent his hat spinning from his head.
‘Look!’ Sharpe pointed.
The other two looked and felt cold fear welling over them. Men were riding towards the house, still distant, but the sun reflected on brass, showing a large bunch of soldiers were approaching. Even as the men looked the party started down a slope out of sight.
No-Nose had eyes far keener than the other two. What he’d seen of that approaching party filled him with fear. At the head of the party rode four men, three of whom were not soldiers. They were Texas cowhands, one riding a paint, one a bloodbay and the third a huge white. No-Nose did not need any help to know who the men were and he knew how Comanche Blake stood with the Ysabel Kid.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ Gren snarled.
‘Where’ll we go?’ replied Sharpe, looking to where the girl now lay face down and without movement.
That posed a difficult problem to Gren. They were cut off from Apache City by the approaching riders. To head back to Hillvers’ land would lead the pursuing men to the Utes, for on the Hillvers’ range was too much Indian sign to be missed. There was only one way left open.
‘Head for the foothills,’ he yelled. ‘She’s cashed and there’s no way they can prove who done it.’
The three men turned their blown horses and started away as fast as they could. Gren was thinking fast, thinking with the desperation of the doomed on him. They must make a big circle and come to Apache City where Hillvers would be forced to give them enough money to escape.
Dusty Fog, Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid rode with Captain van Sillen at the head of half of his troops. Red Blaze followed, riding by the side of the young second lieutenant. Behind them came the troop and in the rear Betty Raybold drove the S-B wagon with Sue Blaze at her side. They were going to help Comanche salvage what she could from the wreck of her home. The soldiers were in their shirt sleeves and wore their campaign hats, they were armed for war and determined to end once and for all the terror of the raiding Utes.
It was the Kid who saw the house and beyond it the horse and girl. His face lost every bit of color and he sent his horse hurling forward at a run which left his friends well behind. Red Blaze saw what was happening, reined his horse and sent it back along the line to where Betty held the wagon behind the soldiers.
‘Oh, no!’ Betty gasped as Red told her what he’d seen.
The girl needed no further words. She set her whip to the team and the wagon went bouncing and lurching along by the soldiers, after Red who was racing his big claybank towards the ruins of the house. By Betty’s side Sue clung on grimly, her face set and pale.
The Kid left his horse at a dead run, landing on his feet and dropping to his knees by Comanche’s side. It needed only one quick look to tell him he’d lost a dream. One of the bullets had come straight through and there was a large hole from which blood poured.
Gently the Kid turned Comanche over. Her eyes flickered open, eyes already misting with death. Behind the Kid, standing rigid as if carved from stone, Dusty and Mark looked down. Their faces fought to conceal the thoughts which raced through their heads but their hands were clenched until the knuckles showed white.
‘Cabrito!’ Comanche gasped.
‘Who did this, Fire Bird?’ asked the Kid in the language of his grandfather.
The girl looked up at the Kid, her hand lifted and touched his cheek, rubbing it gently with the fingertips. She gasped, ‘The Utes—Akins’ place tonight—going to hit—it. Gren followed—’
The Kid was hardly hearing the words. He held the girl in his arms, trying to stem off the death which even now was welling over her. No doctor could save her. Nothing could be done except pray the end would be quick and without pain.
‘Fif-fifteen horses—one of—them Thunder—Lon—I’m—Lon—!’
The hand fell from the Kid’s cheek, falling limp in a way he knew. He knew, although he tried to fight against the knowledge that Comanche Blake was dead.
The S-B wagon had stopped and Betty half jumped half fell from the seat. She’d heard everything and watched Mark bringing back the Stetson which lay beyond the girl’s body. The face Betty turned towards Dusty was one he’d never seen before. For the first time in her life she’d lost her self-control and was on the verge of hysteria.
‘It’s my fault,’ she gasped, recognizing the hat. ‘I stopped you going after Hillvers last night—now this has happened because of it.’
Dusty caught Betty by the arms, shaking her hard. ‘Cut that, Betty,’ he snapped. ‘You know what you did was right. Now stop it and get a grip of your saddle. If Lon needs help not even Mark or I’m going to be able to give it him. I’m relying on you.’
It took Betty a hard struggle to regain her control. Then she turned and found Sue by her. Saw Sue and the look on the blonde girl’s face. Her arm slipped around Sue’s shoulder and her voice was gentle, but it was the voice of Betty Raybold, not a hysterical woman.
‘Go back to the wagon, Sue. This’s no place for you in your condition.’
Sue tried to rebel. Tried to pretend carrying her husband’s first child was not important to her, but she knew she was wrong. At any normal time she would have been as practical as Betty. Right now her place was in the wagon and out of the way.
Red Blaze and van Sillen were by Betty now. The soldiers were halted some distance to the rear. Van Sillen looked to where the Kid still knelt cradling the dead girl in his arms.
‘Can we do anything?’ he asked.
Betty shook her head. ‘Nothing. Don’t touch or speak to Lon right now. Just pray for the men who did this. May God have mercy on them, for Lon will show them none.’
Dusty took the hat from Mark, examining it. Then he turned and walked back to the others.
‘Comanche said something about the Utes and Akins’ place tonight. I think she followed Gren to the Ute camp and heard something, or saw it.’
‘What’re you going to do?’ asked Betty.
‘Go after them right now. Hold them down for Lon. This is one time the law and its due processes can go to hell for all of us.’
Red stepped forward, but Dusty shook his head. ‘I’m riding with you, Cousin Dusty,’ Red said grimly.
‘No go, Red,’ Dusty answered, knowing that Gren, Sharpe and the half-breed would not live until the Kid arrived if the hot-tempered Red rode with him. ‘I want you with Ran and his boys when the Utes hit Akins tonight.’
Van Sillen gave his unspoken agreement to this. He’d not fought Indians and would likely need some help. Red did not see it that way.
‘I aim to go al—’
Dusty faced his cousin and in that moment Red was carried back to the days in the Texas Light Cavalry when he’d objected to Dusty’s wishes.
Red watched Dusty and Mark swing astride their horses and turn to ride away, Mark bending forward to look at the ground as he read the sign of the men who killed Comanche Blake.
For a long ten minutes the Kid did not move. He was cradling the girl in his arms, fighting down the grief which filled him. Then he lowered the dead girl to the ground and stood up. On his face was a look that Betty Raybold had never seen before, a glare of hate in his eyes which was frightening even to one who had known him for many years.
Words rumbled deep and menacing from the Kid’s throat. At first Betty could not understand them. Then remembrance came. Sometime before her marriage, a noted Eastern authority on Indians had visited the OD Connected. During a discussion on the ways of the Comanche, he had asked to hear the Dog Soldiers’ revenge oath and the Kid obliged by repeating it. At that time, in the comfortable main room of the ranch house, the speech had been no more than a string of half-understand Comanche words. vii Listening to it spoken with true intent and the full passion of grief, the girl could barely restrain a shudder. Slowly, savagely, the Kid spoke the revenge oath; promising never to give up the hunt until all Comanche Blake’s killers were dead.
‘Earth, father, you hear me say it!’ the Kid finished. ‘Sun, mother, you hear me say it. Do not let me live another season if I fail.’
Then his eyes went to the watching group and for a long moment there was no recognition in them. Then he relaxed slightly and his eyes lost the hate, only the grief remaining.
‘Take care of her, Betty,’ was all he said.
Turning, the Kid walked forward, taking up Comanche’s carbine and going to his horse. The huge white stallion stood still as a statue, as if sensing that all was wrong in its master’s world. The Kid bounded into the saddle. His eyes dropped to the still shape on the ground and with an almost animal snarl of pent-up rage he turned the horse to ride after his friends without a backwards glance.
Tears welled into Betty’s eyes and through them she heard the sound of Red’s cursing.
Red lifted Comanche’s body and carried it to the rear of the S-B wagon, then reverently covered it with a tarp. Van Sillen’s men were detailed to dig graves for the two old cowhands and went to work fast.
‘I’ll likely be with Ran all night, Cousin Betty,’ Red said as he stood by the wagon, his arm around Sue’s shoulders. ‘Take care of Sue.’
‘There’s only the one way she can get hurt,’ Betty promised grimly. ‘And that is after we’re all dead.’
Gren, Sharpe and No-Nose allowed their horses to walk at an easy pace. This was through no desire to show kindness to the animals, but as a matter of sheer necessity. Those three horses were all which stood between the men and certain death, so although they would much have preferred to be galloping, putting miles between themselves and the Blake place, they could not risk it. If the horses went down as had Comanche Blake’s they would be left afoot and at the mercy of the men who would be hunting them. Not that the Ysabel Kid would show any mercy.
‘They’ll have found her now,’ Sharpe said for the tenth time. ‘Likely be on our track.’
‘She was dead when they reached her. She had to be,’ replied Gren, trying to convince himself as well as his companions. ‘We both hit her—’
‘We don’t know that!’ yelled Sharpe. ‘I only saw her hit once. When you fired.’
Gren looked at Sharpe, seeing the raw fear on his face. ‘We both hit her,’ warned Gren savagely. ‘You don’t think the Kid’ll bother who did or didn’t shoot, do you?’
No-Nose turned, looking back the way they’d come. His hand shook as he pointed.
‘Cabrito!’ he croaked. ‘The Ysabel Kid.’
‘Off the trail and into the hills!’ Gren yelled back.
The men had barely swung their horses from the trail when they saw a man riding parallel to them at a distance of about a hundred yards. A man on a big paint stallion and with the butt of a Winchester Model 1873 carbine resting on his knees, the barrel pointing to the sky. One man blocked their way to the hills. One lone man. But that man was Dusty Fog.
‘Back! Cut across the range!’ Gren screamed.
The heads of the tired horses were turned in a way which would carry them in the direction of the open range. Then Sharpe gave a yell and pointed ahead. Riding on a line parallel to the trail, at about a hundred yards and cutting them off from the open range, was a man. A handsome blond giant of a man riding a huge bloodbay stallion, a Winchester Model 1873 rifle looking small in his big right hand. One man again blocked their way of escape. Just one man. But that man was Mark Counter.
A rush at either man might possibly bring success, for the odds were three to one, but none of that scared trio meant to try it.
One thing was clear to the men. Dusty Fog and Mark Counter did not mean to make a move until the Kid caught up with them. Not unless they were forced to do so. Gren saw this and sweat poured down his face as he realized what it meant. The Kid was being allowed to finish them off in his own good time.
Like trail hands moving a herd Dusty and Mark kept their positions on the flanks. The three men were still not running but were holding their horses for a later dash to safety. The trail rolled on and the distant rider on the big white stallion was in plain sight now. Then Gren saw where they were heading. The opening which led into the reservation was ahead of them. ‘Get by there!’ he yelled.
It was already too late. Mark Counter’s bloodbay had hurled forward and he sat it well clear of the opening, but he now held his rifle ready to shoot. Behind and to one side Dusty Fog was also ready to shoot and cut off their escape. Gren’s mouth opened, wanting to yell orders, then he chanced to look back. To his fear crazed mind the Kid was almost on them, although the big white horse and its rider was still a good way behind. With a yell Gren set the spurs to his horse and sent it racing through the opening closely followed by the others. They felt some slight relief as they saw the open land ahead, plenty of good cover for them to hide in. Gren led the way while high over them a signal light flashed, warning Hunting Wolf that strangers were on the reservation.
‘I’ll make the village, Dusty,’ Mark said, riding towards his friend. ‘You stay on here and keep them bottled in.’
Dusty nodded, that had been his plan, for he remembered what Hunting Wolf said about sealing the reservation so no man could get in or out.
Mark started his big horse across the reservation, riding with all his skill. He was always a light rider, despite his giant size and the bloodbay was up to carrying his weight when aided by his skill. For all that it was well lathered when he rode into the Lipan village.
Shinqua and Hunting Wolf came from the council lodge. There was a rare smile on the big lodge chief’s face as he raised one hand in greeting.
‘Greetings, Tall One,’ he boomed, ‘You have ridden fast. Do you come to wrestle, or to lift little rocks?’
‘Neither,’ replied Mark, also speaking Spanish and the look on his face drove the smile from Shinqua. ‘There is trouble. I need your help.’
‘You ask and it is yours for the taking.’
Mark swung from his horse and a sign from Shinqua sent a boy running forward to take its reins, leading it until it was cooled down. Mark told why he’d come as the boy walked away and the two Apaches listened with faces impassive though there was anger in their eyes.
‘So the dogs come on to our land,’ growled Shinqua. ‘The Hawk Lodge rides. Soon there will be a great killing and three men will scream many times before they die.’
‘That is not the way,’ barked Mark and the two giants faced each other. ‘The men killed Cabrito’s woman. He has taken the lodge oath of a Comanche Dog Soldier and it is on him that revenge must fall.’
Mark did not know for sure if the Kid had taken the lodge oath but was willing to bet he had done so.
‘His oath will be honored,’ replied Shinqua. ‘Tell us what our Comanche brother wants and we will do it.’
‘Close the reservation,’ Mark said quickly. ‘Make sure that not even a rattlesnake could get out by day or night. Let keen-eye scouts range the land and word of where the three men are be brought to the Kid.’
Shinqua gave a wild yell which brought men from where they’d been standing or resting in their wickiups. His orders boomed out and soon every available warrior was riding across the reservation to reinforce the guards at the exits, following a well arranged plan for just such an emergency.
