Double Mountain Crossing (3 page)

The warrior watched him go, wary of what the boy had held back about the white man's camp.
A woman?
No, it must be the other pony. He sat down again, his back with the firm support of a tall pine. As he puffed on his pipe he wondered if the two boys would earn their man-names on this trip. He well remembered the day he had earned his own, fifteen summers past. It had been the year of the great drought on the Staked Plains. The rolling purple prairie had been a washed out grey, littered with the bones of many buffaloes that glistened white in the sun, and the sky had been one black cloud of swirling buzzards. Every place a man travelled, the sore hooves of the ponies had crunched on the bleached bones.

The scattered ranches of the white men had yielded little but for the new scalps that adorned the war lances of the braves. A few horses, but the white ranchers' stock was dying off as rapidly as the thirst crazed buffalo.

Determined not to return empty handed, Little-Bull, as Comes-Walking had then been known, had made his first exploring trip with one other brave, Grey-Wolf, for company. After a week of wandering, his pony lame and dehydrated, Grey-Wolf had sent Little-Bull to ride ahead and bring back water. One water hole after another was dry, the ground churned by the hooves of the angry buffaloes, and by the time he had returned, he found Grey-Wolf and his pony dead with the buzzards already closing in on the still bodies strewn on the parched buffalo grass.

When the water bag was again empty, in order to stay alive, Little-Bull had cut his pony's throat to drink the thick blood, deriving enough succour to enable him to walk north, towards home. Near the
Brazos
river
he had stolen a scrawny horse from a careless white man and crossed the Big Wichita, pushing the old horse until he had ridden it to a standstill on the north bank of the
Red River
. Without a bow to hunt, he butchered the horse and ate what he could, drying out the remainder of the stringy meat to use as jerky for the rest of the long walk home. In the foothills of the
Wichita
mountains
he had been picked up by a hunting party who had given him a ride back to the council fires of the Kiowa nation.

After he had been summoned to recount his story the people listened in silence, and when he had finished the Buffalo Medicine Man had stood up and held up his hands to be heard.

“Little-Bull has made a long journey that lasted many sleeps and which led him along the hazardous trails of the flatlands. Although only a boy, he has used his brains like a man, and worn out two good horses along the rocky road. At last, he has come home to his people grown into a man who now has some idea of what life means to all of us. From this day forward we shall call him He-Who-Comes-Walking-From-The-South.”

The Kiowa warrior smiled to himself. He remembered it as if it had been yesterday. But there was to be a fight tonight. It was time to ready
themselves
. If all three were to ride home it must be a good attack, swift and conclusive. He knocked the ashes from his pipe,
then
fingered the small buckskin pouch that contained his personal medicine, offering a prayer to the Great Spirit to guide him well.

His mind attuned, Comes-Walking rose to his feet and began to strip in preparation for war.

With the first failing of daylight, the Kiowas approached Morgan Clay's camp. Well trained, the two Indian ponies made no sound, only their ears going up when they caught the scent of the white man's horses. Taking no risks, Short-Lance held the nostrils of the ponies with thumb and forefinger, while Comes-Walking and Swift-Foot crept forward through a mesquite thicket to scout.

When Comes-Walking saw the two grazing horses he flashed Swift-Foot a knowing glance. No wonder the boy had said little about the bay. It was a fine animal, tall and powerful, but the most arresting feature was its coloring. The smooth, silky coat was a rich brown, and the ears! The ears were black! Such horses were highly prized among the Kiowas. It appeared Swift-Foot was going to mature into a most devious man. He had known Comes-Walking would have claimed the horse for himself if he had known, but instead he had led him into conceding the trophy in ignorance.

Short-Lance appeared beside him, his eyes widening when he too saw the bay. He looked to the warrior who spoke to him in sign language, explaining they would make a diversion while Swift-Foot stole the horses. Short-Lance nodded. As the horses were the main objective, they should be taken first. He noticed the white man had cleverly picketed the animals close to his fire, knowing in an attack the Indians would not wish to risk killing the valuable animals. It appeared the white man was expecting them.

Short-Lance faded like a shadow into the timber, circling for a clear field of fire. He noted too, the white man's fire was small, in the Indian fashion, big enough for cooking and warmth, but not large enough to attract unwanted attention.

Comes-Walking made the sign and Swift-Foot, understanding his role in the attack, became impatient. The Kiowa warrior made restraining motions urging patience, but he could see he would have to keep a careful eye on the boy. He might possess a devious mind, but in the art of a successful stalk he had much to learn.

Comes-Walking settled into a crouch, always watching, the stock of the old Remington reassuring as it rested comfortably in his hands. He fingered one of his braids, wrapped in soft otter fur, and thought of the many times he had counted coup.

Now, it was the boys' turn.

***

When they came, they attacked swiftly and silently. Morgan was sitting on the grass, away from the flames that could light him up as a target. His fingers were still greasy from the tasty elk meat, and the well cared-for shotgun lay across his knees, loaded and ready. The pockets of his vest held shells and another handful were on the grass beside him. He was as ready as he ever would be.

Morgan Clay knew all about Indians. His years had carried him down through the Nations many times, and he had been quick to realize that where Indians were concerned you had better never get too old to learn new tricks. That was if you wanted to stay alive.

He had scouted for the cavalry too, on the Union side during the Civil War, and he had ridden with many men who had become legendary scouts since. Most of the names had slipped away, but he clearly recalled Bill Cody, now making a name for himself as a buffalo hunter, last Morgan had heard. Cody had been seventeen then, riding for the Missouri Red Legs and they'd spent more than one night chewing the fat round a fire. He could see Cody in his mind's eye, squatting on his heels by the dancing flames, pushing his long brown curls back from his face as he spoke about Indians. They'd argued about night attacks, and Cody'd said most of the tribes wouldn't attack at night because they were afraid if they were killed their spirits would wander forever in the darkness, unable to find the beginning of the trail of stars that led to the happy hunting ground.

The one exception he knew of was the Kiowas. They would attack any time they figured they had the edge. Any time at all.

Morgan began to build
himself
a cigarette, sifting tobacco from his pouch onto the thin paper. Just my luck, he thought. When I find a bunch of the murdering red savages, I have to find Goddam Kiowas, and then hundreds of miles from their home range. How lucky can you get? He rolled the paper gently, shaping it,
then
stuck it down. Complete, he nipped the surplus tobacco from the ends and pushed the strands back into the tobacco sack. He placed the cigarette between his lips and leaned forward to pull an ember from the fire.

The first arrow sliced into the pine tree, quivering with arrested power exactly where his throat had been the moment before.

Cigarette unlit, Morgan rolled and went down on his stomach, the ten gauge scattergun in his hands. He blasted off the first chamber into the timber where the unexpected arrow had come from. Leaves were torn apart and bark splintered from the blast but another arrow split the air above his head. He pulled the trigger again, shooting to the right, and the butt of the gun punched into his shoulder with the recoil. He rolled and broke the gun, callused hands hasty as he plucked the spent cartridges and pushed in fresh ones.

Across the clearing to his right, the bay, sultry as ever, was stamping and pulling at the picket rope, jerking his head, wall-eyed. In contrast, the dun gelding stood stock still. He was used to Morgan hunting from his back and his head only jerked a little, involuntarily, when the shotgun blasted out.

Morgan switched his attention back to the timber and fired again, this time more to the right.

Nothing.

He eased the gun open and replaced the smoking cartridge. Better to replace one now, he thought, while he had the chance. As he brought the gun back to his shoulder an eagle feathered arrow gouged the earth, shaft buried six inches deep, a hairsbreadth from his face. He shot to the left, unsure in the failing light.

In the thicket behind the two horses, Swift-Foot heard the second gunshot and decided to make his move while the white man was reloading. Concealed, he had been downwind of the horses and the breeze had carried his scent away from them. Now, he jumped forward out of the trees and sawed through the picket rope in two strokes. The dun side-stepped gingerly round
him
, wary of the boy's strange scent, but the bay, free of restraint, began to plunge, hooves flying in all directions. Swift-Foot caught the rope as the bay
reared,
ducking below the iron-shod hooves churning only inches from his head. The boy directly beneath him, the bay whinnied shrilly.

Morgan rolled and came up on one knee, the shotgun to his shoulder, searching for a gap between the milling horses to place his shot. As his finger took up the slack on the trigger he heard a bloodcurdling war whoop on his left. Faltering, he swung back and saw a Kiowa warrior full in his sights.

Comes-Walking, seeing Swift-Foot in peril, had decided to step into the fight. Both boys had shown courage and he was satisfied. With a howl he stepped from the trees. The Remington flowed smoothly to his shoulder with all the decisiveness needed to fell a running buck, and as the white man swung the twin gaping mouths of the shotgun towards him, he squeezed the trigger.

The hammer fell on the dud cartridge with a dull click.

Comes-Walking's eyes widened as the blast from the shotgun literally picked him up, a hundred needles of red hot screaming pain burning into his chest. He cart wheeled, a bloody blur in the closing of day. By the time his blood spattered cheek rested on the cool mountain grass he was dead.

In the timber, Short-Lance mouthed a silent scream of horror at what had been a man, and with hot tears of rage coursing down his cheeks, he began to pluck arrows from his quiver and fit them to the bowstring. In his anguish, he loaded and sighted and fired in perfect co-ordination, his speed almost rivalling that of an experienced rifleman working the action of a Henry Repeater.

His scattergun empty, Morgan checked the Kiowa brave was down then turned for the trees. He scooped a handful of cartridges from the grass and as he straightened up pain exploded in his arm. He tried to move to dodge the hail of arrows that bit into the air all around him but found he was skewered to the pine tree. He glanced down at his arm and saw that an arrow had passed clean through it and was lodged in the coarse bark of the tree trunk behind him.

As best he could, he reloaded and fired across the glade into the thicket, spacing his shots apart.
One centre, one to the left.
Reload.
One to the right, one to the centre.
Reload.
One to the left, one to the right.

The hail of arrows ceased.

There was silence, only the breaking of the scattergun audible as Morgan reloaded, scarcely bothering to glance at his hands in the gloom. His eyes were too busy squinting through the haze of black powder smoke that hung in a pall over the clearing. The ten gauge fastened shut with a solid reassuring click and he held it ready for use, expecting the unexpected.

The pine tree looked like a porcupine, arrow shafts replacing the quills, but miraculously he had only been hit by the one arrow. As the smoke cleared a little, he narrowed his eyes and peered into the growing dusk. He ignored the pain from his arm and concentrated on trying to penetrate the pools of inky shadow on either side of the clearing. The lineback dun snickered softly, drawing his attention. The gelding was blowing softly, occasionally turning his head towards the dead Indian, the alien scent not bothering him as much as that of the live ones had. Maybe the attack had been called off.

There was a sound of breaking twigs in the thicket and Morgan swung up the barrels of the scattergun.

The lower branches parted,
then
the dark muzzle of the bay, packhorse poked through tentatively. After a moment's deliberation, the horse pushed its way through into the glade and plodded over to a clump of fresh grass, shaking his mane to free it of twigs before he dipped his head to graze.

Morgan snorted back a laugh of relief. The attack was over.

At least for the present.

***

Short-Lance's tears of rage had nearly emptied his quiver. With shaking hands he notched his last arrow to his bowstring. When that was gone, what use would a knife be against the double barrelled big killing gun? He had never seen any weapon that could make such a mess of a man as had the last blast which had killed Comes-Walking. And he never wanted to see it again. The impatience that had prodded him eagerly into battle had now deserted him and he felt frightened and vulnerable. Clenching his jaw against the trembles he drew the string taut and sighted along the arrow flight.