Cry for vengeance, p.1
Cry For Vengeance, page 1
part #3 of Breed Series
The Home of Great
Western Fiction
The Comanche wheeled his pony round and charged towards the man who stood between him and his dream of war. The long war lance glinted bright in the afternoon sun, its razor-sharp tip pointing straight at the half-breed’s heart.
The man was called Matthew Gunn, though some called him Breed. And they avoided him, for Breed meant danger! Breed, the avenging warrior who hates Indian and white man with equal ferocity.
Now he stood alone on the blood-stained sand and waited. Death shone in his pale blue eyes and a cold rage filled his heart. The Comanche was nothing to him, merely an obstacle blocking his trail of revenge—an obstacle to be removed...
BREED 3: CRY FOR VENGEANCE
By James A. Muir
Copyright © 1977, 2022 by James A. Muir
This electronic edition published October 2022
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book / Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Series Editor: Mike Stotter
Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Estate
Visit www.piccadillypublishing.org to read more about our books.
For Gumdrop
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
About the Author
Chapter One
HEAT, LIKE A shroud, lay over the Staked Plains. It blistered out of a sky so bright a man’s eyes hurt from looking at it. The sandy ground sent back answering waves, so that the land shimmered, seeming to writhe and undulate like a wriggling snake. But no snakes showed: like the other inhabitants of the desert, they were not so foolish as to venture into the baking sunlight. High above, riding the thermals like black exclamation marks cut into the blue-white sky, hung vultures. It was cooler at that height, but not by much.
The desert was still, biding its time, waiting for the cool of evening. Nothing moved.
Except the men.
Men are foolish; or obstinate: it depends on the viewpoint. They go places the lesser creatures are sensible enough to leave well alone. They travel at times when any intelligent beast seeks shelter and rest. They ignore the basic rules that govern the balance of nature. They refuse to admit their smallness on the scales of the world.
These particular men were accustomed to heat, and spurred by greed. Four of them were Mexicans, using their wide-brimmed sombreros to puddle shadow over faces and hands. Three were half-breeds, their dark, thick-set features emphasizing their mixed parentage. One was a negro. All eight rode solid, reliable-looking horses with carbines sheathed along the saddles and more hardware showing around their belts. They herded a string of sixteen mules, each one carrying a canvas- wrapped bundle on its swaying, sweating back. The movement, gentle though it was, for they moved slowly in the heat, caused the bundles to clink faintly, the rattle of metal on metal.
A mile away on the far side of a low bluff, a second group of men hunkered in the shade of some big saguaros. They were mostly dressed in breech clouts and paint, though a few wore fine buckskin shirts. Their hair was uniformly black and long, their faces broad, with heavy noses and calm, cold eyes. They were Comanches.
To one side of the saguaros stood a group of fifteen mustangs, watched over by the two youngest warriors, The others lay or squatted, in silence or low-voiced conversation. They carried lances and bows and they were waiting for the riders.
The riders were Comancheros.
As they pushed through the heat haze a Comanche stretched out on the crest of the bluff let his eyes wander slowly over the flatlands. He caught a sight of the cavalcade and turned, calling a guttural warning down the slope. The Indians resting below glanced up, one rising to his feet. He was tall for a Comanche, his broad chest covered with a painted quill bib, streaks of black and red dye banding his face. Plaited into his hair were three eagle feathers. He was called Iron Knife and he led the warriors.
The leader of the Comancheros had been christened Samuel Graves. The surname was that of the planter who had owned him; the other, his father’s name. His men called him El Negro because of his coal-black skin. He had escaped the plantation when he was sixteen and stowed away on a Mississippi river boat that took him down to New Orleans. After that he had worked and hidden and run until he ended up in Mexico. By then he was big enough that most men thought twice about commenting on the color of his skin, and good enough with gun or knife to settle any who did comment. He had worked around the border for a few years, drifting until he met Jaime Sanchez and they set up together as Indian traders. Guns and liquor offered a higher profit margin than legal trading, and soon El Negro was one of the wealthiest Comancheros in the territory.
His latest venture promised to make him wealthier still.
Iron Knife watched the riders coming, picking out the darker tint of Graves’ skin from the swarthy tones of his companions. It was unlikely that anyone else would venture this deep into Comanche territory, but the Indian was careful by nature, so he made no move until he was absolutely sure. Then he moved back down the slope, signaling to his men.
The Comanches mounted their ponies, falling into line behind Iron Knife as he rode towards the agreed meeting place.
Almost too high up to be seen, a vulture picked out the movement and spiraled lower, watching the ground. It was an old vulture and well-fed: long ago it had learned that groups of men often meant easy pickings.
The Comanches rode slowly, taking care to let the Comancheros arrive first. Then they came forward, silent as Graves’ called out a greeting. The traders had dismounted and Iron Knife, with two others, followed suit; the remaining Indians spread in a semi-circle around the group.
‘Hola,’ said El Negro. ‘¿Que va?’
‘Bien.’ Iron Knife replied in Spanish, the lingua franca of the South West.
Cigars were handed out and the three Indians squatted, puffing on the aromatic black tobacco. Then, the rituals of greetings dispensed with, they settled down to business.
Graves motioned to one of the half-breeds and a mule was brought forward. The negro rose to his feet and tugged on the drawstring holding the pack secure. The canvas fell away and the mule skittered sideways as rifles clattered to the ground. Most were single-shot Spencers, relics of the Civil War, but amongst the pile of weapons Iron Knife could see lever-action Henrys and early-model Winchesters. He grunted his appreciation. Graves nodded and reached for a gun packed separately to the rest. It was a .44-40 Winchester carbine, in better condition than the others. He handed it to the Comanche.
Iron Knife checked over the gun, working the lever and dropping the hammer on the empty chamber until he was satisfied of its condition. Graves handed him shells, and the Indian loaded, sighted out into the desert and began to fire. Unused to the handling of a Winchester, he fired slowly, his shots erratic, but his face split in a savage smile while his braves whooped their appreciation.
Graves waited until his customer was satisfied, then gestured at the string of pack animals.
‘There are one hundred rifles there, Iron Knife, and fifty pistols.’
‘How many of the fast-fire guns?’ interrupted the Indian.
‘Twenty-five,’ replied Graves, easily. ‘That was all I could get. They’re harder to come by than the others.’
Iron Knife grunted: ‘Bullets?’
‘Three loads. The other mules carry powder and shot for the slow-fire rifles.’
‘Good.’ Iron Knife looked pleased. ‘You do well, Black One.’
‘Yeah,’ said the negro, ‘an’ I can get more. If you got the gold.’
The Comanche called something in his own language and four warriors walked their ponies forward. They each carried two heavy-looking sacks which they let fall to the ground. Iron Knife kicked one with a moccasined toe.
‘Open it.’
Graves knelt, cutting through the rawhide thong holding a sack closed. Dull yellow gold dust glinted briefly in the sun, and he smiled, re-fastening the sack.
‘I ain’t about to ask where you got it,’ he grinned, ‘but it’s a deal.’
‘You get more guns?’ Iron Knife asked.
‘Sure.’ El Negro watched his men stow the sacks onto the pack saddle of a mule. ‘You bring more gold; you get more guns.’
‘How long? ’ The question was guttural, urgent.
Graves shrugged. ‘Maybe two moons. Come here then.’
‘We come,’ nodded the Indian. ‘Get the guns that fire fast.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Graves, ‘but I ain’t makin’ no guaran
Iron Knife studied the smiling black face for a moment, then, Indian-fashion when a conversation is ended, he spun abruptly on his heel and walked away. Graves watched him spring onto the pad saddle of a pinto mustang, yank his war lance from the ground and ride away. The other Comanches herded the mules together in a tight group and used their lances to goad the animals to a fast canter. After a while they were gone into the heat mist.
‘Let’s get the hell outta here,’ shouted Graves, climbing into his own saddle. ‘John Bear, you take the mule.’
The half-breed grabbed the lead rein and hauled the mule behind him. As much as his impassive face could show emotion it looked as though he was pleased to be riding out.
Graves rode in silence, aware of a prickling along his spine that had nothing to do with the heat. He was accustomed to trading with the Comanches, and knew that the Indians were too intelligent to risk cutting off the supply of goods he brought them. But there was something about this new deal that made him uneasy. The tribes had shown no sign of starting a new war, but they were amassing more guns than ever before, and that made the tight, black curls covering his scalp tingle nervously.
His men seemed to share the feeling.
Paco, the oldest of the Mexicans, spurred his stallion alongside the negro’s mount, a worried expression showing through the drooping moustache that obscured his lower face.
‘What you think, jefe? What’s old Iron Knife up to?’
‘Don’t rightly know,’ answered Graves. ‘He’s pickin’ up dust from somewhere, an’ he’s sure as hell stockin’ up on guns. Maybe he’s plannin’ a war.’
‘Which might be a bad thing.’ murmured Paco.
‘How’s that?’ Graves wondered if the Mexican had the same doubts he felt. ‘We got paid, didn’t we?’
‘Sí,’ grunted Paco, glancing quizzically at the black man, ‘but when he has all the guns he wants; what then?’
‘You mean he could turn nasty?’ Graves said thoughtfully. ‘Decide that maybe he don’t need us anymore?’
Paco nodded: ‘Sí.’
‘He’ll still want ammunition. An’ most o’ them single shots are gonna fall apart after they been fired a coupla times.’
‘But the repeaters we sell them,’ said Paco softly, ‘they will last. And if Iron Knife starts a new war, the territory will sprout men like the Spring grass.’
‘Yeah.’ The negro looked at Paco with new respect. ‘I get yore drift. A war means soldiers. If Iron Knife cuts loose like Roman Nose did up in Kansas, the whole o’ Texas will be crawlin’ with bluecoats and Rangers. That could shut the border off tighter’n a whore at a Quaker picnic. An’ that’s bad fer business.’
He lapsed into moody silence and Paco said no more, leaving El Negro to his own thoughts as they headed south.
The sun remained hot as ever, prompting men to slump wordlessly in their saddles, salt sweat caking over their faces. Far away, in the direction of Mexico, a range of hills butted from the flat terrain, bleached white by wind and sun so that they reflected light back into the eyes of a watcher. Samuel Graves glanced towards them, and moved his gaze away as the blinding dazzle brought tears with its intensity. Then he looked back and his jaw dropped, his mouth opening in surprise.
Above the hills, the light shimmered and moved, shapes forming wraith-like in the pale air. Graves crossed himself, suddenly remembering the stories his mother had told him of guppies and nightwalkers. He had seen mirages before, but never so clear, never so large across the sky.
The light shifted, outlining the mirage as clearly as though the riders were only a mile or so distant. They were Comanches, paint distinct upon faces and chests. War paint. They carried rifles and the traditional lances of the horse warriors. And from the upraised lances hung long bunches of hair that the Indians waved and flourished, shouting soundless cries.
‘¡Madre de Dios!’ Paco gasped, kissing the rosary hung around his neck.
The others gasped, the Mexicans mumbling fervent prayers, the half-breeds crossing themselves or making the two fingered gesture that fends off evil spirits.
Graves felt the sweat washing his back turn suddenly cold, and shivered, gritting his teeth.
He reined in, turning in his saddle.
‘It ain’t nothin’! Just a goddam mirage. Some bucks been out on the prod an’ got theirselves a few scalps. That’s all, dammit!’
‘I hope so, muttered Paco, ‘but strange that it should show just now, and so clear.’
‘It ain’t nothin’,’ Graves repeated. ‘Nothin’.’
After that, the Comancheros grouped closer together and rode with one hand resting close to the carbines sheathed in their saddles. John Bear drew into the center of the group, leading the pack mule so that it was surrounded by his companions.
They rode in silence, scanning the plains with more than their usual caution, each man anxious to find a safe camp where they could fort up for the night.
They reached a crumbled mesa around dusk, The flat-topped outcrop had been eroded close to the ground by wind and rain, tumbled boulders surrounding its flanks, and one side smoothed away to a kind of ramp. Graves called a halt and they made camp with the mesa at their backs and fallen rock to the front and sides. Look-out duties were assigned, and the first guard climbed the slope to the tabletop, hunkering down with his eyes on the desert as the air turned cold and the moon showed across the badlands.
Below, his companions built a fire, taking care to site it close to the rock wall, where it would be invisible beyond a few yards.
They set coffee to boil and meat to roast, and someone produced a bottle of tequila. It made them feel a little better.
Almost five hundred miles away in south-east Texas the brig Elizabeth James swung against her anchor chains in Galveston harbor. Rowboats ferried the passengers ashore, dumping them with their baggage on the lamplit wharf. Only five people disembarked, a married couple, an elderly widow, and two men. The men were well-dressed, but carried little in the way of luggage. One was tall, dark-haired, with green eyes that stayed cold even when he smiled. The other was shorter, a blond man with a lazy Southern drawl and a curiously high-pitched laugh, almost girlish in its giggling intensity. They both wore Colt .45 revolvers which had stayed with them throughout the sea passage.
The blond man was called Jude Christie. The other was Nolan; he had never offered a first name.
Chapter Two
‘THAR Y’GO, Mr. Gunn. That’ll see you clear through to San Antone an’ Houston. You wanna cut south to Galveston, you can pick up a rig an’ be paddlin’ on the Gulf afore you can say “William Travis”.’
The ticket clerk thrust a yard-long stretch of paper through the pigeon hole cut into the depot window and grinned nervously at the passenger. The man was young and had offered no reason for the clerk’s nervousness, but Ben Weaver had been manning the Brandon’s Hole line-stop for too long that he couldn’t recognize a hardcase when he saw one. And if he ever had, there was one facing him now.
Outwardly, there was nothing to set the man apart from the other drifters who purchased tickets from time to time, except maybe the Apache-style moccasins he wore, laced to knee height, with the dark leather haft of a knife sticking up from the right leg. His shirt was white—more or less—and looked reasonably clean, if well worn. His pants were of buckskin, common enough in the South West, as was the wide-brimmed black hat he wore. The Colt holstered snug on his right hip and the broad-bladed bowie knife hung on the left were standard equipment. It was the eyes that made Weaver jumpy. They were very blue, and very cold, and they seemed to take in everything around in one casual glance. Something about the man made the clerk think of the Apaches he had seen when he was scouting for the Army. His face was wide-boned, the nose broad, slightly flattened above the straight line of his full-lipped mouth; a face that might have belonged to an Indian. But his hair, hanging close to his shoulders was a sun-bleached blond color that no Apache had ever owned.
Weaver had watched him walk in to Brandon’s Hole with a saddle hoisted on his back and a Winchester held in his right hand. He looked like he was coming from the wilderness country that divided the Arizona Territory from California, and Weaver figured his horse must have died somewhere along the trail; but he hadn’t asked after the man looked at him. He had walked straight up to the way station and demanded tickets through to Galveston. Weaver had explained that the Southern Pacific hadn’t got around to running a spur line down to the coast yet, so they’d compromised on a through billet to Houston.
