Authors: Georgina Gentry
Colt (22 page)
“Yes, sir.”
Colt and the sergeant exchanged glances and returned to their positions.
The patrol kept riding another hour. By now, all the horses were lathered and the men were drinking up the last of their canteens. The sun hung like a fried egg in a hot blue sky and there was no view of anything for miles around but rough country and an endless sea of prairie grass.
“Permission to speak, sir.” Colt saluted.
The other frowned. “Granted.”
“Beggin' your pardon, sir,” Colt said, “I think I recognize this country. There's a little tank off to the right a few miles with a few trees.”
“Tank?”
“It's what Texans call a water hole, sir. We ought to stop and give the men and horses a chance to fill up.”
The captain glared at him. “Are you trying to give me orders, Lieutenant?”
“No, sir, but I thought you mightâ”
“We'll keep riding. I don't want to detour out of the way, we'll lose some time.”
Colt took a deep breath. He was stuck with a glory-hunting commanding officer who didn't know much about Texas or horses. He was going to ride everyone into the ground in this heat. If horses started dying or going lame, the patrol would be in big trouble.
“Yes, sir.”
They rode another three hours in the relentless heat. Colt's cut lip was now cracked and his canteen was almost empty. He dismounted once and poured a little of the precious water into his hat and gave Rascal a drink.
The captain scowled at him. “You better save your water, Lieutenant. We'll be running short.”
“Yes, sir,” Colt snapped back, “but if I have a dead horse, I'm stuck out here on the prairie and that's worse yet.”
He glanced over at the grizzled sergeant and caught his eye. The old soldier looked worried and he had a right to be, Colt thought. Two feuding superior officers and one of them green as grass. Here they were out on the vast western plains of Texas with a blistering sun beating down on them.
The terrain ahead grew rougher, with more hills. As the afternoon wore on, up ahead lay an arroyo, a deep one with banks twice as high as a man's head.
The captain said, “We'll ride through there.”
“Beggin' your pardon, sir,” Colt said, “that's a good spot for an ambush. I think we'd be better off to go around.”
“Then we'd lose time,” the captain snapped. “You wanting those Injuns to get away, Lieutenant?”
“No, sir, but they may have scouts out, know we are followin' them and that'd be a good place for them to trap us.”
“Good Lord, Lieutenant Prescott, I didn't know Texans were so cautious.” The captain grinned with sarcasm. “You afraid of a few Injuns? We've got a pretty good-size patrol here.”
“Sir, I didn't go to West Point, but I know even a small force can keep a big force pinned down if they get above them and surround them.”
“Nonsense. My training tells me those ragged Injuns are fleeing as hard and fast as they can, knowing the army is after them.”
“Beggin' your pardon, sir, but I know Comanches. I lived among them for ten years. They're the best light cavalry in the world and they haven't survived all these centuries without being smart. They may not have been to West Point, but they can teach you a thing or two about battle tactics.”
“Enough, Lieutenant!” the captain roared. “Now if you're afraid, I can send you backâ”
“Are you callin' me a coward?” Colt's free hand rested on the butt of his pistol.
“Sirs,” the sergeant interrupted, “begging your pardon, but can we continue our patrol and you two finish your disagreements back at the fort?”
Colt felt suddenly ashamed. He had a lot of men with him and they were depending on their officers to follow orders, attack the Comanches, and get them safely home.
“He's right, sir. We'll finish our argument back at the fort. Duty comes first.”
“You're right,” the captain agreed and peered ahead. “How long is this arroyo anyway?”
Colt took off his hat and scratched his head. “I've forgotten, maybe a quarter of a mile or less. It bends here and there like a snake.”
“Then there's no way it could hide a hundred warriors,” the captain scoffed. “We'll ride ahead through it so as not to lose time going around.”
Colt started to argue, remembered the West Pointer was his superior. Instead he sighed. “Yes, sir. Alert the men, Sergeant Mulvaney.”
The old Irishman rode back along the line. “Look lively, men. We're riding into the arroyo.”
Colt heard grumbling behind him. Some of these men were native Texans and they knew the lay of the land. This crooked wash through the hills was a perfect place for an ambush and they knew it. Nevertheless, they followed orders and the troops rode slowly into the canyon, the supply wagon lagging behind.
Colt was as edgy as a cat. He rode forward, but he kept his gaze on the rim of the little canyon. There was a lot of dry brush and some cactus growing along the edge, and brush and low willows in the arroyo ahead of them that stretched like a jagged scar across the Texas plains, chewed out by rushing water in rare rains over eons of time.
“Captain, if you want my adviceâ”
“I don't.” The officer's voice was curt.
Colt tried again. “Sir, that supply wagon should be moved up. That arroyo is a perfect place for an ambushâ”
“We've already discussed this, Lieutenant,” the captain snapped. “Now just do your duty. I'm in charge of this patrol.”
“Yes, sir.” Colt kept his eyes on the rim of the canyon as he rode. The sun was so blinding, he had to squint. The captain might not see anything, but the hairs on the back of Colt's neck rose up and he was sure he felt sinister eyes watching them.
They were halfway down the arroyo now, the sun blistering, the afternoon so quiet, there was no sound save their horses' hooves on the dry clay and gravel and an occasional snort or a light buzz as dragonflies rose up off weeds ahead of them.
And then Colt saw a metallic glint reflected from the sun along the rim of the canyon. “Look out! Indians!”
“Where? Where?” The captain's horse reared as he jerked the reins, but the men were already dismounting without orders and scurrying behind boulders.
“Lieutenant!” the captain shouted. “I don't see any Indians! Have you gone crazy?” And his horse reared again even as a shot ricocheted off a rock near him and he came sliding off in a near panic. “Good Lord! How many of them are there?”
“There's no way to know.” Colt crouched down behind a boulder, shouting orders to his sergeant to get all the men dismounted and under cover. He began to curse at the lack of knowledge that had gotten them into this mess. “Save your ammo, men!” he shouted. “Don't shoot unless you're sure.”
Back along the route, he heard shrieks and shots and then silence. “Damn it, they've taken our supply wagon. I told you to move it up!”
The captain's face was already discolored from last night's fight; now it turned pasty white. “There's extra ammo on that wagon.”
“Yes, sir.” Colt nodded. “And now the Comanches have it.”
Along the rim of the canyon, dark heads with lurid painted faces popped up now and then, fired, and then sank out of sight.
The captain's face turned as pale as milk with sweat beading on it and running down his blue collar. The bruises stood out all green and purple on his handsome features. “Maybe we should try to break out.”
“We'd be like ducks in a small pond,” Colt shouted back. “We need to wait 'til dark and maybe we can figure out something.”
“We could be here for days then,” the captain whispered.
“Yeah, we could.” Colt didn't look at him; he was so furious with the novice officer that he wanted to grab him and shake him until his teeth rattled.
The grizzled old sergeant scurried up to him. “Sir, we've got one dead and two wounded, and whoever was with the supply wagon.”
“Figure those troopers are dead,” Colt snapped.
The captain seemed to have given up all interest in command. He just blinked and pulled at his mustache, staring into space.
Colt took over. “Make the wounded as comfortable as possible, Sergeant, and tell the men to save their water. We may be here for a while.”
“Yes, sir.” The old man saluted and crawled away.
The captain wiped his pale face as bullets hit rocks around them with a zinging sound and glanced off. “Are they liable to shoot our horses and leave us afoot?”
“Normally, yes.” Colt took off his hat and wiped his sweating face. “But these are fine horses. They'd like to take them as prizes, trade them to the Comancheros.”
“Whatâwhat's a Comanchero?”
Colt sighed. “Mexicans and renegade whites who trade with the Injuns. Fine horses will bring a good price in places like Mexico City.”
No one spoke then, and the canyon got quietâtoo quiet.
The captain whispered. “Maybe they've left?”
Colt laughed without mirth. “Just stick your head up and you'll find out. There's no reason for them to leave. Time is on their side, and now they've got fresh supplies, thanks to our slow-movin' wagon.”
Just then a new recruit stuck his head up to look around. A shot echoed off the rim of the canyon, and he went over backward, blood spurting from his head.
Colt swore. “Got your answer now?”
The captain groaned and reached for his canteen.
Colt frowned at him. “You'd better hang on to whatever water you've got. We'll need every drop.”
Reluctantly, it seemed, the captain put away his canteen without opening it. “Isn't there anything that will get them to leave?”
“Reinforcements,” Colt muttered, “but those we don't have.”
“Anything else?”
“If we managed to kill one of their leaders, they might take it as bad medicine and withdraw,” Colt suggested, “but that's a long shot.”
They settled down for the afternoon, and Colt watched the long shadows creep across the arroyo. No one spoke or smoked because Colt had sent out orders that the tiny bit of flame might draw gunfire.
The captain sighed. “This is the longest day I've ever spent.”
“Wait 'til night comes and you can't be sure if every shadow is a bit of brush or a warrior sneakin' up on you to cut your throat,” Colt replied. “Then you'll know how slow time really moves.”
“They aren't that brave, are they?” In the shadows, the captain looked panicked. “I mean, to sneak up on us?”
“Yes.” Colt nodded. “They can cut a man's throat before he makes any sound but the gurgling of blood rushing out of his neck.”
“Oh, dear God,” the captain murmured. “Oh, dear God.”
The sergeant crawled over to them again. “Sir, it'll be dark soon. Any orders?”
The captain tried to say something, finally shook his head.
Colt said, “Sergeant, tell the men to eat a little hardtack and stay alert. They may try to rush us in the dark when they think we've dropped off to sleep.”
“Yes, sir.” The sergeant crawled away.
The moon came up, big and round and yellow as a pumpkin. The night felt as hot as a dark wool blanket.
Colt cursed. “This is what we Texans call a Comanche moon. They can see as good as owls in this moonlight. I was hopin' for clouds so it might be dark enough for us to slip out of this canyon and get away.”
“No chance?” the captain asked.
“Captain, look out there. You can see the shadow of a rabbit big as a steer if it tried to cross that bare prairie.”
Drums started in the distance and then the chanting.
“Jesus!” The captain sounded frightened. “What in the hell is that?”
Colt shrugged. “They know they've got us trapped. They're gonna enjoy the night with a little dancin' and feastin', figurin' they finish us off at dawn.”
The captain's hands shook on his rifle. “It's getting on my nerves. I don't know if I can take that all night.” His voice rose and he started to stand up, but Colt grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him back down.
“That's what they want, for us to panic and start runnin'.”
“You're right.” The captain's voice shook.
“They'll leave a warrior or two guardin' this arroyo while the rest of them celebrate. The man who tries to ride out of here for help is a dead man or worse.”
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