Demon's Pass (21 page)

“We should not let the breakfast go to waste, should we?” one of the braves asked, reaching for a pan of fresh biscuits. The pan, sitting on top of the stove, was still hot, so the Indian burned his fingers when he reached for a biscuit. He let out a yelp of pain and stuck his fingers in his mouth. The others laughed, then they, too, began poking through the kitchen to find something to eat.

Yellow Hand walked out onto the porch of the ranch house and stood there with his hand on one of the roof support posts. Behind him he could hear his men laughing and talking and reliving the “battle.” It was the sign of a good leader to win a victory with very little fighting, for that showed that he was a good tactician, and able to outsmart his enemy. He knew, though, that attacking a ranch house was not like attacking a wagon train, guarded by armed men. Still, it gave them a taste of the warpath and that was his purpose, along with the chance to pick up a few more guns, as most of his men were armed only with bows.

“Yellow Hand,” one of the warriors called out, rushing out onto the porch. “Look—three rifles and three pistols. We have done well!”

“Burn the white man's lodges,” Yellow Hand said. “Now we will travel to attack the wagons.”

 

Parker, Clay, and the others rested for two days while they cut up and dried strips of buffalo meat, letting their mules rest from the ordeal of the desert. During that same time, they also made repairs to the wagons. Using the extra buckets of grease Charles Garland had given them, Parker repacked every wheel of every wagon.

“Clay, we have got to get along today,” Marcus said. “Look at the sky. There's snow in those clouds.”

Clay thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “You're right,” he said. “It's time we got going again.”

“Wait a minute, you promised us five days of rest,” Pecorino complained. “Besides, we couldn't go on now, even if we wanted to. Look at the mules. Do you really think they can pull a load? We'd be lucky if they can walk by themselves, let alone haul a wagon.”

“We've got to try,” Clay insisted.

By now, the others had gathered around to listen to the conversation.

“I think Frank is right,” Tobin said. “We've been here a few days now and the mules don't seem one bit stronger.”

“Then maybe we should go on before they get any weaker,” Jason suggested.

“Hold it, boys,” Marcus said quietly. “It doesn't look like we're going anywhere for a while. At least, not now.”

“What do you mean?” Clay asked. “You're the one who said we should go.”

Marcus carved off a piece of chewing tobacco and stuck it in his mouth before he answered. “Looks like we got company.” He pointed to a distant ridge line. At first, there were only a few shapes outlined against the sky, then more joined them, then more still, until finally they appeared to fill the whole top of the ridge.

“Indians!” Pecorino said. “Son of a bitch, look at 'em! Where'd they all come from?”

“You think they're the same ones who attacked the Reynolds party?” Tobin asked.

“I hope they are.” Parker seethed. “I'd like a little revenge.”

“Revenge?” Tobin said. “There are six of us. There must be forty or fifty of them. Who's going to get revenge on who?”

“They ain't the same ones anyway,” Marcus said. “Them that attacked Reynolds was Cheyenne. We've done passed through their territory. More'n likely these fellas are Shoshoni.”

“Any chance they're friendly?” Clay asked.

“I doubt it. Look at that big fella, the one with a yellow handprint on his face,” Marcus said. “Friendly Indians don't paint themselves up like that. No, sir, they've come for a fight.”

At that moment, the Indian with the handprint raised his rifle and fired at them. They could see the white puff of smoke, followed an instant later by the whine of the bullet as it whizzed by.

Clay began unhitching one of the mule teams.

“Boss, you crazy? You better get back behind the wagon,” Tobin said.

“If they kill our mules, we'll be stuck right here,” Clay said as he continued to loose the team.

“I'll help,” Parker said, and started disconnecting the second team. Marcus began unhitching the third team.

Clay led the mules, keeping them together as a team, and bringing them around behind the wagons. Parker was just behind him.

But Marcus didn't make it. Parker was looking right at him when he went down. Clay heard the sound of the bullet hitting flesh, and when he turned around, he saw Marcus holding his hand in front of him, looking surprised at the blood that filled his palm from the hole on his chest.

“Marcus!” Clay shouted, running back to him.

“Oh shit,” Marcus said. He wavered, then fell down on one knee. “It don't look like I'm going to be able to take me that swim in the Salt Lake.”

The Indian with the yellow hand on his face was evidently the one who had shot him, for he held his rifle over his head and let out a loud victory yell.

“Get back behind the wagons, you damn fool,” Marcus said in a pain-wracked voice. “I'm already kilt . . . ain't nothin' you can do for me.”

Disregarding Marcus's warning, Clay started to pick him up. At that moment Yellow Hand fired again, and Clay went down as well.

“Jason! Clay and Marcus are both down! Help me bring them in!” Parker shouted, running toward the two men.

“Start shooting!” Jason yelled at Tobin and Pecorino, both of whom were taking cover behind the wagons. Not until they were galvanized into action by Jason's shouts did the two men begin firing at the Indians. With their rifles providing some cover, Jason hurried out to help Parker.

“Clay,” Parker called, kneeling down beside him. “Clay, talk to me.”

Clay opened his eyes. “What are you doing out here, boy?” he scolded. “Get back behind the wagons.”

“Not until I get you in,” Parker said.

One of the Indians, thinking it to be an easy target, pulled away from the others and started riding hard toward Parker and Clay, holding his lance out in front of him.

Jason watched for a second, as if unable to believe the Indian would subject himself to such exposure. Then, when he realized that it wasn't a trick, that the Indian actually intended to come all the way to them with nothing but a lance for a weapon, Jason shot him.

“How bad am I hit?” Clay asked, his voice strained.

“I don't know,” Parker answered. “But I don't think the bullet hit any of your vitals. It looks like it's too high in the shoulder for that.”

“What about Marcus?” Clay asked.

“I just checked Marcus,” Jason said. “I'm sorry, Clay. He's dead.”

“Damn,” Clay said. He sighed. “Listen, you boys get back, or you're going to join him.”

“We aren't leaving you,” Parker said. “Come on, Jason, help me get him behind the wagons.”

Just as they reached down for Clay, another Indian broke away from the group and started toward them. This time it was Parker who saw him, and he whirled and fired. The Indian went down.

“You're getting pretty good with that iron,” Clay said.

The boys helped Clay up, but his wound was such that he could only use one arm, and they couldn't support him from both sides. Parker held him up as best he could while Jason helped them back toward the wagons, providing covering fire. Another Indian came toward them, close enough to send an arrow whistling between them, and Jason brought him down. Finally, they reached the relative safety of the wagons, and Clay sat down behind one of the wheels.

“Here they come!” Tobin shouted. “This time the whole bunch of 'em is comin' at once!”

The Indians came hard, galloping through the dust, shouting and whooping their war cries. They charged almost all the way up to the wagons, firing from horseback. Those without firearms loosed arrows or hurled lances toward the little huddled group of defenders.

Parker, Jason, Tobin, and Pecorino took very careful aim, making every shot count. Four Indians went down, and their empty horses whirled and retreated, leaving their riders dead or dying on the ground behind them.

Over the next two hours, the Indians attacked several more times, getting a little closer each time before being driven away by their deadly gunfire.

“As many of them as there are, why don't they come all the way in?” Pecorino asked, nervously. “Seems to me like they're just playing with us.”

“There are a lot more of them than us, that's true,” Clay said. “But not that many of them have guns. We're pretty even with them on that score, and my bet is we've got more ammunition than they do.”

“Maybe if we can hold 'em off till dark, they'll go away. I heard Indians don't like to fight at night,” Tobin said. “Somethin' about the Great Spirit not bein' able to find 'em in the dark.”

“Well, Indians don't like to fight at night, that's true. But they won't leave, either. And we could wake up in the morning to find 'em right on top of us,” Clay said. “No, if we are going to get rid of them, we're going to have to do it now, before the sun goes down.”

“How we going to do that?” Pecorino asked. “Run 'em down and club 'em?”

“Tell me that . . . and we'll both know,” Clay answered, his voice weak and halting. “You boys may have to hold on without me for a while,” he said in an even weaker voice. His head fell forward and his eyes closed.

“Clay?” Parker asked anxiously. “Clay, are you all right?”

Tobin checked him. “He's still alive,” he said. “He's just passed out, that's all.”

“Damn, what'll we do now?” Pecorino asked.

“We do the same thing we've been doing,” Parker said. “We fight them off.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean we can light a shuck out of here,” Tobin said.

“You mean run?”

“Yep,” Tobin answered. “Think about it. They don't want us. They want what's in these here wagons.”

“How we goin' to run?” Pecorino asked. “There's not horses enough for all of us, and we sure can't go on foot.”

“Frank is right,” Parker said.

“Maybe not,” Tobin said. “We got three horses amongst the four of us. Frank can ride Clay's horse. You two boys are light, you can double up. Hell, the Indians will be so interested in what's in the wagons, they won't pay us no never mind.”

“What do you mean he can ride Clay's horse?” Parker asked. “Don't you think Clay ought to have something to say about that?”

“He ain't got nothin' to say about it,” Tobin said. “Like it as not, he won't live through the night anyway. We'll leave him here.”

“Leave him to the Indians?”

“It's a hard life out here, boy,” Tobin said. “Sometimes choices has to be made.”

“When you were wounded, we could've left you with Shardeen,” Parker said. “We didn't leave you behind then, and we aren't leaving Clay behind now.”

“The hell you say,” Tobin growled. He looked over at Jason. “What do you say, Jason? If Parker stays, we'll have a horse apiece.”

“I'm staying,” Jason said.

“Suit yourself,” Tobin said. He started to turn away.

“Tobin,” Parker called menacingly to him, “I said you aren't leaving, and I meant it. Neither of you are.”

“Who's going to stop us?” Tobin asked.

“I am.”

Tobin laughed. “I know you been practicing with that gun, learnin' how to draw and all. I hope you don't think you're good enough to stop both of us all by yourself.”

“He won't be by himself,” Jason said, stepping over to stand beside Parker.

“What the hell?” Pecorino shouted. “Are all of you crazy? The Indians can't kill us fast enough that now we've got to start killing each other?”

For a long moment, Tobin glared at Parker and Jason, then he let out a long, surrendering sigh.

“Ah, what the hell,” he said. “Even if we got away, we'd probably starve to death trying to make it back through the canyon. All right, kid, you win. I'll stay here and let the Indians slaughter us all.”

“I'm glad you feel that way,” Clay said, speaking for the first time in several minutes.

“Clay, you're all right!” Parker said excitedly. He dropped down beside him for a closer look.

“Depends on what you mean by all right,” Clay replied. He turned and looked toward the Indians, who were now gathered in a little cluster about five hundred yards away. “Anyone figured out who their leader is yet?”

“I reckon he's the one with the yellow hand on his face,” Jason said. “He's the one that done shot Marcus and you. And he's the one been doing most of the yellin' and pointin'.”

“Good,” Clay said. Grunting against the pain, he stood up, then leaned against the wagon wheel and looked out toward the Indians. “Parker, hand me the spyglass,” he said, holding his hand out.

Parker pulled the telescope out of Clay's saddlebags then handed it to Clay, who opened it and held it up to his eye, studying the Indians. After a moment, he snapped it shut.

“I think you're right,” he said. “The fella with the yellow hand is the one we want.”

“The one we want for what?” Jason asked.

“The one we want to kill,” Clay said easily. “Parker, you think you can snake one of those fifty-caliber Sharpes out of the back of Marcus's wagon?” he asked.

“The Buffalo rifles? Sure, I can get one.”